Cindy Moore was one of the women who knew how to run.
That wasn't cowardice.
It was the luxury of knowing when to stay.
She was a journalist—
she lived by questions and grew lonely with the answers.
Names were erased, files were closed, the city fell silent.
But Cindy did not.
Because some truths become more dangerous when they're left unwritten.
She took a breath before turning on the recorder.
Before lifting her pen, she counted how many doors would close.
And still, she asked.
Cindy Moore wasn't the kind of woman who chased the truth.
She was the kind who could predict where it would try to hide.
She stood too close to the wrong people.
Listened to the wrong silences.
And one day, she realized the answers were buried
in a man's refusal to speak.
This wasn't a mistake.
Not yet.