He didn't come back like before.
Not gentle.
Not watching from the corner.
Not whispering in riddles.
This time, Lucas stepped in.
And he stayed.
He sat across from me on the attic floor.
Eyes darker than before.
Voice slower.
Like something deeper had settled inside him.
"You missed me," he said.
I nodded.
Tried to keep my voice steady.
"I thought you were gone."
"You tried to forget. I don't like that."
"I wasn't forgetting," I whispered. "I was scared."
"Good."
He stood.
Walked to the old wooden chest.
The one Mama used to keep locked.
He opened it without a key.
Inside were scraps.
Drawings. Torn shirts. A broken hairbrush.
"Do you remember this?" he asked.
He held up a drawing.
A house with no windows.
A stick-figure boy inside.
Alone.
"I drew that."
"You were five."
"You already knew."
I didn't ask what he meant.
I knew.
Knew that before words, I had fear.
Before names, I had silence.
Before I was Daniel, I was something else entirely.
Lucas handed me the paper.
It crumbled slightly in my grip.
Then he said:
"It's time."
"Time for what?"
He leaned closer.
"To stop playing victim."
"To become what they made you."
I wanted to argue.
To scream that I wasn't like her.
That I wasn't broken.
That I could be okay.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because part of me…
A deep, buried part…
Agreed with him.
That night, I didn't cry.
Didn't tremble.
Didn't wait for dreams to hurt me.
I stood in front of the mirror.
And said it out loud.
"My name is Daniel."
Then quieter:
"And I'm not the only one in here."
Lucas smiled in the reflection.
And for once—
I didn't look away.