She Turned Her Grief Into Wings novel Chapter 24

Shera looked him dead in the eye, her tone serious. "No matter how far I make it this time, promise me you won't interfere."

Rhys's face softened with indulgence. "I know. You want to win on your own merit."

"Exactly."

Over dinner, the two of them reminisced about the old days.

Under the warm restaurant lights, Shera spoke animatedly, while Rhys rested his chin on his hand, just watching her, quietly listening.

The spark had returned to her eyes, and looking at her, his own dark eyes seemed to glow.

The wedge that time had driven between them felt like it was finally shrinking.

—

By the time he dropped Shera off and returned to his own place, it was well past midnight.

Moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows into his living room. Rhys sat on the rug, opening a cardboard box.

It was filled with an eclectic mix of items, but everything was neatly organized. Despite being years old, the contents smelled perfectly clean, completely devoid of mustiness—a testament to how often he went through it.

Rhys reached in and pulled out a school uniform shirt that had been washed so many times it was wrinkled and slightly yellowed. The rusted name tag pinned to it bore a few faded words.

*Fifth Grade, Rhys Jewell.*

On the sleeve, there was a clumsy, lopsided daisy embroidered in thread.

His mind drifted back to that year, back to when Shera and Lenny Jewell had first brought him home off the streets.

He had been drifting for so long that he possessed an intense, instinctual paranoia toward everything. Every day, aside from eating and sleeping, he would just sit in a corner and stare blankly at the wall.

When Lenny realized the boy hadn't spoken a single word in the three months he'd lived with them, he took him to the hospital. The doctor diagnosed him with psychogenic mutism, likely triggered by severe trauma.

Every day after school, Shera would plop down next to him. She'd tell him she scored a ninety-eight on her math quiz, complain about what she had for lunch at the cafeteria, and brag about how all the girls in her class were jealous of the new dresses her dad made for her.

She chattered away endlessly, like a little sparrow.

She fought battle after battle for him, coming home with dirty clothes and scraped knees.

Then came that day during gym class. Shera got into a scuffle with three or four older kids trying to protect him. A stray rock clipped her forehead, and blood came streaming down her brow.

In that exact moment, it was as if something inside his body short-circuited and rebooted. He lunged forward, sinking his teeth viciously into the instigator's arm, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Don't touch her!"

His voice had been trembling and garbled, but it was fierce.

Under the oak tree, covered in dirt, she flashed the brightest, most dazzling smile. "See? I told you I could teach you how to talk."

Later that night, under the dim yellow light, Shera—with a bandage taped to her forehead—held a needle and clumsily stitched up his torn uniform, inch by inch.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the dazzling nightscape of Aurelia City, Rhys lowered his eyes.

He gently brushed his thumb over the little daisy. The thread had long since frayed, but he still remembered every single stitch.

She had told him, "Daisies don't look like much, but they're the bravest flower. Even when the cold winter comes, they still bloom."