Chapter 16 - Healing Wounds
Freedom, I quickly realized, wasn't just the absence of danger; it was the slow, deliberate process of reclaiming the ordinary moments I had missed.
We enrolled Mason in a local academy where his exceptional technological aptitude was nurtured rather than exploited. Weekends were spent teaching Lily how to ride a bicycle without training wheels, her bright, contagious laughter echoing across the paved park paths while I ran alongside her, holding onto the back of her pink helmet.
The psychological scars of the past, however, took longer to mend.
Some nights, I would wake up in a cold sweat, reaching instinctively for a weapon that was no longer there, my ears straining for the sound of shattering glass or sirens in the dark. On one such night, I found Mason sitting quietly at the kitchen table, a glass of water in his hand.
"Can't sleep, Dad?" he asked softly.
I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, running a hand through my tired eyes. "Just thinking, buddy. About everything we went through."
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Mason slid a small, neatly folded piece of paper across the table. I unfolded it to find a drawing he had made—not of our current life, but of the dark living room from the night the nightmare began. In the drawing, however, we weren't trapped; we were breaking through the walls together, holding flashlights that shone blindingly bright against the dark.
"We made it out, Dad," Mason said with quiet wisdom. "And we remember how to keep the lights on now."
