The days that followed were filled with gentle distractions—stories shared, children's laughter echoing through the center, and quiet evenings spent journaling by the window. But that sketch… it stayed with Maya.
She caught herself scanning crowds, her eyes flicking toward corners and alleyways, wondering if he—"J"—was nearby again.
One late afternoon, as she helped little Kemi with a painting project, Faith called her over. "You have a visitor," she said with a curious smile.
Maya stepped into the hallway, heart pounding.
It wasn't him.
It was a delivery—no name, just a beautifully wrapped parcel.
Inside was a book. Letters to the Quiet Ones. A poetry collection… underlined and dog-eared in places, with a fresh handwritten note slipped between the pages:
"Some words feel like home. Thought you'd understand. —J"
Maya clutched the book to her chest. There were no grand declarations, no names. But she knew—this was the beginning of something. Something slow, thoughtful, and maybe just as healing as the work she'd done on herself.
---
The days passed like soft whispers through the trees—quiet, yet filled with a sense of anticipation Maya couldn't explain. The mornings were gentle, with sunlight streaming through the dusty windows of the shelter. The laughter of children became her favorite soundtrack, and the smell of freshly made porridge reminded her of home—whatever version of it she could still claim.
Yet something lingered beneath the surface. A shadow of curiosity… or maybe longing.
That sketch.
The stranger's face, etched in such haunting clarity, had embedded itself in her mind. There was something in his eyes she couldn't shake—pain wrapped in intensity, the kind only someone familiar with brokenness could carry.
She found herself glancing over her shoulder more often. Watching reflections in glass. Not out of fear—but out of a strange hope.
One cloudy afternoon, as the wind played with the curtains, Maya sat beside little Kemi, painting blossoms on a cardboard cutout of a tree. The little girl hummed a tune, carefree, lost in color and innocence.
"Maya," Faith's voice broke through the moment, soft but curious. "Someone left this for you at the front desk. No name."
Maya wiped her hands and followed Faith into the hallway, heart thudding as if it already knew something significant waited.
A rectangular box wrapped in matte black paper rested on the desk.
Inside, nestled in tissue, was a book: Letters to the Quiet Ones—an obscure poetry collection she had once whispered about during one of her group sessions. The book looked used—intimately so. Its corners were worn, several pages marked with soft pencil strokes.
But what made her breath hitch was the note tucked inside.
Some words feel like home. Thought you'd understand. —J
That single line hit her harder than any shouted confession ever could.
"J." Again. Not watching this time. Reaching out.
Maya closed the book and hugged it to her chest. She felt the connection—wordless but alive. It didn't need explanation. Sometimes, the most profound bonds were the ones that stayed in the quiet.
She didn't know who he was yet. Not fully.
But for the first time in a long while… she wanted to.