As I walked past the house, I climbed a nearby tree and perched quietly on a thick branch. From there, I could see everything — the flames, the smoke, the slow death of a monster. I sat there, legs dangling happily ,reviewing everything I had done from inception to the end. Not a flicker of guilt crossed my mind. Instead, there was peace. Dark, twisted peace crawling through my veins.
I lit a cigarette, the flick of the light screaming in the silence of the night. The first drag filled my lungs, burning but satisfying. I exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the air, merging with the black thickened smoke that oozed out of the house. It was as if my soul and that fire were one — consuming, unapologetic, free.
I smiled faintly and reached for another stick. No one had taught me how to smoke. I'd learned it from the ghetto boys, those lost souls who lived for danger. At first, I choked and coughed like a fool and their mocks pierced through my heart.But pain taught me and I learned fast. Now, each puff was a ritual, a quiet celebration of survival and pleasure.
I finished the second cigarette, stubbed it out, and left without a trace. Back at the hideout I slept, but not well.Ghostly hands seemed to crawl under my skin all night. Still, amid that restless ache there was a hollow kind of peace: a thought that Mira and my mother were finally at rest somewhere beyond reach. They would be in good places. I'm sure.
Morning came thin and grey. I boiled a cup of noodles and ate standing over the sink, then sat in the empty room and let the silence press in. Later I climbed to the roof and watched the street below — children in ragged clothes, faces smudged with dust as if painted with charcoal,playing as if the world owed them nothing. The sight settled on me like a second heartbeat.
An idea rose up slow and stubborn. What if I could give some of what I'd stolen back? I had no proper schooling, only a few stunted years at the orphanage, but I remembered enough to teach them the small things that open doors. The thought surprised me — the same hand that had held the knife, the same mouth that had tasted blood, suddenly wanted to hand someone else a book.
Then another thought struck harder: books weren't always protection. Predators wore nicer faces than the mob or my foster father. What if I taught them to defend themselves. Not to become monsters, but to survive? I'd seen how the world chewed up the soft and left nothing behind. I didn't want another child to become what I had been.
The plan was ridiculous and raw and maybe hopeful, but it rooted in me like something alive. For once, the future wasn't only a place for revenge. It could be a small, dangerous kind of mercy.
A book, a pen, a woman can change the world — that was the algorithm of my new life. And I was the woman. But how do you teach children when their parents distrust the world, when you don't even know the name of half the streets? I paced that problem for days, racking my head so hard.The city was a maze and I had no map.
One evening, hunched under a flickering streetlamp with a cigarette between my fingers, I watched a small scene that felt like an answer.Two little girls,no more than seven , crouched beside a cracked wall, a stub of charcoal clutched in there fist. They filled the concrete with impossible flowers, crooked houses, and stick-figure families. Their laughter was thin but fierce, as if the drawings themselves were a kind of protest.
I studied them. The kids wore patched dresses and shoes. Their knee was a brown smear from too many afternoons spent tumbling in dust. But their focus was holy. They treated that wall like a classroom. In that moment the city looked more like a classroom waiting for a teacher.
I stubbed out my cigarette and walked closer, careful to look harmless.
"Nice work," I said, voice softer than I felt. The little girl looked up, surprise and pride sharpening her face. "You draw well."
Her friends clustered behind her, wary. "Who are you?" the girl asked.
"Someone who likes drawings," I said. "Someone who can lend you a pencil and a book."
It was a small lie but it was the right one. Maybe, a genuine one though.The girl hesitated, then nodded, .
"What's your name?" I asked, bending to meet her eyes.
"Savy," she said, her voice tiny but steady.
"May," the second girl chimed in quickly, clutching the edge of Savy's shirt as though hiding behind her shadow. Her smile was pure sunlight, the kind that melts the frost on even the darkest hearts.
"Can you draw for us?" Savy asked, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
I raised an eyebrow. "You should ask for my name first, kiddos."
Their heads dropped instantly, fingers fidgeting with the edges of their shirts. For a second, the silence between us felt fragile, like glass waiting to break.
"My name is Lila," I finally said, letting the edge in my tone fade away. "And yes... I can draw. I can draw anything."
Savy's eyes brightened. "Can you draw me? I want to give it to my mother."
That line " to give it to my mother " hit something deep within me. For a moment, the cigarette smoke that usually cloaked my world thinned. I saw a door, a way to begin again.
"Sure I will," I said softly. "And I'll teach you too... as long as you can bring your friends along."
"Okay, Lila!" they chorused, their laughter echoing down the narrow street as they ran off.
I watched them go, a lollipop between my lips, its sweetness strange and foreign after few taste of smoke and blood. I hopped lightly on my way home, humming a tune I didn't remember learning.
Still, somewhere inside me, a colder voice whispered in my head
"They shouldn't have called you Lila."