I stayed in the hospital for three weeks.
Three weeks to watch the ceiling. Three weeks to count the hours. Three weeks trying to figure out how a life could turn into a single night.
The doctors were talking about fractures. Contusions. Rehabilitation. They were explaining what happened to my body. No one could explain what happened to the rest.
The days passed. The nurses were coming in. Were going out. The visitors, too. Sometimes my mother was there. Sometimes not. We didn't talk much. There wasn't much left to say. Because we both knew that nothing would bring Malik back. And because we also knew that this story had begun long before us. Centuries before us. With a girl named Maev. With a man unable to accept a refusal. With a curse that refused to die.
When I finally left the hospital, I did not return to the camp. I didn't have the strength. Every caravan would have reminded me of Malik. Every way. Every campfire. Every smile.
I got a room in a house. Then another one. Then another one. I lived day by day. Like after my first run away. Except this time, I wasn't a teenager anymore. I was a broken young woman. And anger had replaced fear.
For several months, I looked for Malik's grave. I don't even know why. I knew the truth. I knew he was dead. I knew he'd never come back. Yet I needed a place. A stone. By a name engraved somewhere. Something that allows me to talk to him.
But I couldn't find anything.
Then I walked.
Again.
Always.
Like running can save me.
As if moving forward prevented memories from catching up with me.
Then, one day, I sat in front of a notebook. A simple spiral notebook bought in a supermarket. And I started writing.
At first, it was awkward. Incomplete sentences. Memories. Angers. Tears turned into words. I wasn't writing to be read. I wasn't writing to tell a story. I was writing because it was the only way to keep breathing.
When words became insufficient, I wrote more. When the pain came back, I was still writing. Gradually, the notebooks accumulated. Then the notebooks. Then the flying leaves. My whole life seemed to be turning into ink.
One night, in a small café where amateur musicians were performing, someone asked me if I was singing.
I said no.
That was not true.
Like everybody else, I used to sing in the shower sometimes. As a habit. By boredom. Out of necessity. But I never imagined singing in front of anyone.
Yet, a few weeks later, I went on stage. The legs trembling. Throat dry. Terrified.
And I sang.
Only one song.
A sad song.
Of course.
When I came down from the stage, I realized something had changed. The pain was still there. But she found a voice.
Then I started again.
Again.
And again.
Then someone told me about an old piano in an associative room. I didn't know how to play it. I didn't know anything about music. But that did not prevent me from trying.
At first, it was a disaster. My fingers seemed to belong to someone else. I was always wrong. I was hitting the wrong touches. I was losing patience.
Then, one day, a melody appeared.
Simple.
Fragile.
Imperfect.
Like me.
Then I continued.
For months.
For years.
I learned to write. I learned to sing. I learned to play the piano. Not because I had talent, but because I needed to transform something. The penalty. Anger. Absence. All those things I've been wearing for too long.
One day, a man read some of my texts. Then a few more. He looked at me long before saying:
"You seem to have lived a great deal.
I remember smiling.
A sad smile.
Maybe the most sincere of my life.
I gave him my writings.
He read them.
All of them.
Without ever asking me what was true.
Without ever asking me what was wrong.
Without ever asking me who Kamino was.
Or who was Malik.
He simply offered me his confidence.
Then a roof.
Then a chance.
Thanks to him, I became an artist.
Not famous.
Not rich.
Just an artist.
A woman who writes.
Who sings.
Who plays the piano.
A woman who turns her wounds into songs.
A woman who keeps running sometimes.
Bad habits never disappear completely.
Even today, when I go on stage, I sometimes think of Malik. To her smile. To his patience. To this life we will never have.
Sometimes I think about my mother too. To Maev. To everyone who brought this story before me.
I don't know if the curse will ever end. I don't even know if anyone can really escape Kamino.
I only know one thing.
He took me a lot.
He took my father from me.
He took Malik from me.
He took part in my childhood.
Part of my innocence.
But he didn't take everything from me.
I still have my words.
My voice.
My songs.
And as long as I have that left, I will continue to move forward.
I'll keep running.
Nor to escape.
But to live.
Because behind love sometimes hides a greater threat than death.
And yet...
Despite everything I've seen.
Despite everything I've lost.
I still believe that love still exists.
And that no curse can ever completely erase it.