Chapter 2

Two Lost Souls

The July sun was merciless, hanging low in a white-hot sky like a relentless spotlight on a summer stage.

Heat shimmered off the cracked asphalt like a heat haze, warping the edges of the rusted metal bench where Latifa sat. Her cotton dress clung to her back like wet paper, sticky with sweat that made her skin itch. Cicadas screamed somewhere beyond the maples and oaks, a loud, frenzied buzz—the soundtrack of sticky, slow Southern summers—filling the air with desperation, like they too were suffocating in the thick heat.

Her fingers tightened around the worn leather strap of her purse, rough and frayed against her palm, the scent of old leather mingling with faint traces of her lavender-scented detergent—a perfume of hope and fresh starts. Though it was only Friday afternoon, she wore her best Sunday dress—the one starched stiff and smelling faintly of lavender from church, saved for special occasions and the rare times she wanted to feel something close to grace.

The longing to be a mother again had lived inside her longer than her sobriety. Lately, the bottle whispered cruel things—that she didn’t deserve this chance—to feel like a mother, even for a moment.

She’d told herself for years that kids stole too much—beauty, sleep, youth—and gave little back. That belief had made the emptiness easier to bear. But now, the thought of this girl—her niece—stepping off the bus made her ache with a fragile hope that scared her more than shame ever had.

A small voice crept in: What if she hates me?

Then a darker one: Or worse... what if I hate her?

She’d never said it out loud, but the fear haunted her like a shadow at dusk. What if the girl saw herself in her—wild, damaged, hungry for love in all the wrong places?

Her fingers clenched harder. Once, just one night, she’d let a man photograph her half-dressed—not for love or liking, but to be seen as beautiful. That was the currency back then—attention for love, sex for worth.

The next morning, he was gone. The pictures weren’t.

She told herself it was one mistake in a sea of them. But sometimes, in the quiet, she dreamed she stood under a spotlight, half-naked and ashamed, faceless strangers flipping through those photos like a catalog of her shame. The shame had a shape, a smell—faint musk of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke—and a memory that never stayed buried long.

Latifa closed her eyes and whispered, “God help me.”

A warm hand settled over hers, rough and steady.

“Breathe,” Anthony said softly. “You’re waiting for a girl, not the end of the world.”

She opened her eyes. His smile wasn’t goofy like it was with church kids—it said I see you, and I’m still here.

Anthony hadn’t just helped her stay sober—he stayed when she broke, helping her believe in God and herself. His presence was a tether in the swirl of fear, a steady pulse in the silence.

She glanced down at the silver cross around her neck. Cold but steady—like truth itself.

“I’m scared,” she said, voice low and trembling. “What if she needs more than I can give?”

Anthony tilted his head, the faded tattoo on his forearm catching the sun’s glare—a small, faded flame. “And what if you have exactly what she needs? Your past doesn’t disqualify you—it prepares you.”

He tapped the tattoo again, its edges softened by time. “I’ve helped more people with this mark than with any sermon. The ones who’ve been to hell and back? We speak a different language.”

Latifa nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “What if she’s like me?”

The words dropped between them, heavy and raw.

“She might be,” he said. “But who better to walk her through it than someone who survived?”

Her throat burned with old pain. “My mother never wanted me,” she murmured. “Look where I ended up—from a boy’s bed to dancing on a table. I can’t let her be another me. I can’t carry another girl through that darkness if I can’t get her out.”

Anthony leaned closer, voice steady. “Then don’t carry her. Walk beside her. You’re not alone.”

She smiled thinly. “God’s village, right?”

“Every day of the week.”

A long silence passed. Then the bus crested the hill, its blue and silver body gleaming in the heat like a mirage.

Latifa sat straighter, smoothing the folds of her dress.

“I can do this,” she said, not quite believing it—but wanting to.

Anthony squeezed her hand. “Yes, you can.”

With a teasing grin, he added, “Just don’t expect me to handle any private girl stuff.”

Latifa laughed, the sound sharp and bright, cutting through the heat like a sudden breeze. “That’s the one thing I’m qualified for.”

“Good,” Anthony said. “Neither my criminal record nor the Bible trained me for that.”

Kiki sat by the window, watching the scenery unravel like an old quilt falling apart.

The bustling city gave way to gravel roads and wide fields, where trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches scratching the sharp blue sky. Towns shrank—twelve streets, then five, then one blinking gas station—until only cracked pavement remained, flanked by sun-bleached fences and lonely Victorian houses sagging under time’s weight. The less pavement she saw, the more untethered she felt, like she was drifting with no anchor.

She leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane, chilled slightly despite the heat outside. The sky was painfully blue, the air crisp and dry, probably carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and dust—like the settings in those beat-up romance novels she read when she couldn’t sleep. Those stories always had a boy waiting at the station, eyes full of forever and forgiveness. But this wasn’t one of those stories. No boy. No romance. Just the cold ache of being unwanted.

She blinked hard, fighting tears that stung salty and sharp behind her lids. She couldn’t stop thinking about her sister—not her mom, not foster placements, not herself—just Alex. How long until her face blurred? In books, it always happened like that—one day you realize you can’t remember how someone smiled or sounded. Time didn’t just pass; it stole. It hollowed you out.

Chuck’s voice crept in, uninvited: You’re the knockoff version of Alex.

“Same family tree,” he said, “but all the good parts are broken.”

She’s the real thing. You’re what happens when someone tries too hard and still comes up short.

Kiki would have given anything to be like Alex—funny, bold, loved. But life chipped at her, left her uneven and cracked like a mirror hit too many times but never shattered.

The bus lurched forward, metal groaning beneath her. Overhead, a voice crackled through the speaker: “Pine Hollow General Store is the next stop.”

Kiki sat up, heart sinking like a stone. Pine Hollow sounded like a place with pine trees, a lake, maybe a white church steeple poking through leaves. Instead, flat fields, dull grass, and scattered cows stretched in every direction. No pines. No hollow. Just empty space that swallowed the horizon.

She clenched her hands in her lap, throat tight as dry leaves. No one ever made her feel wanted; she didn’t expect today to be different.

She grabbed her two small suitcases, rolled up her artwork—thin sheets with curled edges—and headed to the front of the bus. She felt like a prisoner headed for execution, every step heavier than the last. The thought that her aunt might take one look and send her back to foster care clawed at her chest like a cold hand. That fear was familiar—like every birthday candle she’d blown out with the same silent wish: Don’t leave me.

The doors hissed open with a sharp whoosh. Warm air blasted her face, thick with dust and the scent of hot asphalt. She stepped into the gravel lot. Dust swirled around her ankles, stinging her throat and itching her eyes. Somewhere across the lot, someone was talking—but not to her.

She scanned every direction. No sign. No welcome. Just sun. Just silence.

What if she changed her mind?

What if she never planned to come?

What if Mom picked a town at random and dumped me here like trash?

The suitcases felt heavier with every second. She braced for disappointment—again.

A car door clicked open.

A woman stepped out, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand. She looked around slowly, searching.

Kiki froze.

She was the right age. Tired but sturdy. Not smiling. Not running. Just standing.

Their eyes met. Something small and locked away inside Kiki cracked wide open.

She stayed frozen, shoes sinking into gravel like the ground didn’t want to let her go.

The woman stepped forward—slow, steady. No smile. No retreat. Just coming closer.

Somehow, that quiet movement felt like mercy. Maybe she hadn’t been forgotten after all.

A voice called, “Catherine, I’m over here!”

Kiki looked up. A slim, pretty woman stood near a bench, waving both arms. She wore a soft, flowing, floral dress that swayed in the breeze.

Kiki hadn’t known what to expect—but it wasn’t this. No tattoos. No halter top. No revealing shorts. Just a warm smile that made her heart twist with something between hope and dread.

A gust of wind stirred dust around her ankles. It caught in her throat, gritty and dry—like the place itself was trying to swallow her before she could speak.

From the sidelines, Anthony watched quietly. He wasn’t sure why his stomach fluttered. He was only here for moral support—and maybe to keep Latifa grounded—but when he caught the girl’s eyes, something shifted. A shiver crawled up his spine. He knew that look.

He’d worn it once.

Seventeen. A jail door slamming behind him like a verdict. The first time it closed, he wept—helpless, undone. That look was in his eyes too: fear and fragile hope, cracked open by a world that offered no second chances. The look of someone standing on the edge, praying someone might catch them.

She hadn’t beaten a man half to death for two bottles of bootleg whiskey and three cartons of cigarettes. All she’d done was exist—born to the wrong woman at the wrong time.

According to Latifa, that was her only sin.

Anthony knew better. The world overflowed with souls like that—never shown how to be loved. Scarred by silence. Forgotten. Shoved into corners and called broken.

She gripped her suitcases like anchors holding her together. She didn’t need saving. She needed someone to stay.

He turned to Latifa, watching her stand frozen—caught between running toward the girl or away from the weight she carried. Her breath hitched; her hands trembled faintly.

“Remember,” he said softly, “you’ve got this. I’m with you every step—for as long as you need.”

The bus hissed and pulled away, engine ticking as it cooled. Dust caught the sun in a shimmer of gold, settling like sand in her lungs.

Latifa stepped forward. Then another.

It reminded her of her first days here—the jarring shift from car horns and sirens to open fields, dirt roads, and a sky so wide it made you feel too small.

Even now, the nighttime silence unsettled her. Some nights she strained to hear something—a voice, a siren, a fight. But all she heard were crickets.

She wouldn’t trade this peace. But peace could feel like exile when you weren’t used to it.

A wave of emotion surged. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back. Now wasn’t the time for tears or a weepy aunt reunion. Catherine needed strength, not sentiment.

Forcing a smile, she waved. “Catherine! I’m over here! It’s your Aunt Latifa!”

The words felt strange—hollow even. In a town full of white faces, she was the only Black woman at the station. Of course she was the aunt.

The girl approached slowly, each step wary. Her face unreadable, arms thin, suitcases dragging like dead weight. Latifa’s chest tightened. Was she scared? Disappointed?

She had no idea what the family had told the girl. Maybe nothing. Maybe too much.

The worst part wasn’t that they might’ve painted her badly—it was the fear they hadn’t needed to.

The look in Catherine’s eyes—part fear, part resignation—twisted something deep in Latifa’s gut. She didn’t know what she wanted to apologize for, but the urge throbbed: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

In a quiet voice, the girl murmured, “Aunt Latifa,” head dipping low as if bracing.

“Hi. I’m Kiki. Well... that’s what they’ve always called me.”

Latifa’s heart clenched. She wanted to throw her arms around the girl, to wrap her in safety and never let go. But she didn’t.

Kiki looked like someone barely holding herself together. A hug could be a breaking point.

The girl needed time. Not a savior. Not a speech. Just space to breathe and the promise she wouldn’t be abandoned again.

“Hi, Kiki,” Latifa said gently, accepting her hand. “I’m your aunt. And you’ll have a home with me—for as long as you want. That’s a promise.”

It felt surreal. A stranger, connected only by blood and backstory. Yet here she was, calling her family.

Latifa looked at the girl’s guarded eyes, slim shoulders, and thought of the modest house waiting down the road. Too hot in summer, too cold in winter. It wasn’t much.

She wished she had more to offer. A better home. A cleaner past. A story that didn’t start with loss.

But she had a bed. A warm meal. And a kind of love she’d never had to give—until now.

Kiki was swallowed by guilt—sudden, suffocating, like a thunderstorm cracking open a heavy sky. Her lips trembled as tears welled.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” she whispered, voice splintering.

Fear curdled into shame; her body shook.

She’d braced for Aunt Latifa to act like Cousin Howard.

The first time Howard really looked at her, he leaned back in his chair, took a slow drag of his cigarette, and laughed.

“Oreo,” he said, pointing like she was a joke. “Brown on the outside, white in the middle.”

He grinned, but it wasn’t a joke. Not with his gold chain glinting, cigarette smoke curling like a dare she couldn’t meet.

The room laughed—everyone except her. That laughter cut.

After that, she stopped raising her hand. Hid her books. Softened her voice. Made herself smaller.

But the name stuck.

Even now, the word turned her stomach. The sound of a cookie wrapper made her flinch. The smell of Oreos made her taste shame.

That memory clung like smoke in her hair—stale and inescapable. His voice curled with mockery. The hush that fell when she entered, like she’d broken something just by showing up.

She knew the difference between being allowed and being wanted.

“Mom said it was either come live with you… or go into foster care.”

Before Latifa spoke, Kiki lunged forward, clinging fiercely.

“I don’t want to go to foster care,” she sobbed. “I’ve heard stories… girls made to do awful things…”

She clung so tightly Latifa could hardly breathe. “I’m sorry I’m a burden.”

Latifa’s heart cracked open. How could her sister let this child believe she was a burden?

Tears spilled down Latifa’s cheeks. She pulled Kiki close and rested her chin on the girl’s hair, speaking from her soul.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered, “you’re not stuck with me. I fought for you. I wanted you.”

She leaned back just enough to meet Kiki’s eyes.

“Aunt Clare said you were the sweetest thing she’d ever met. She told me you needed love. And I…” Her voice caught. “I need someone to love.”

Her heart pounded so hard her knees went weak—but she stayed steady, holding Kiki like she meant it.

“You are not my burden,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

Kiki gasped for breath between sobs.

“I promise I won’t be a problem. Just tell me what to do—I’ll do it. Just… please don’t send me to foster care. I won’t make it there.”

Latifa held her tighter, even as old memories pushed up—sharp, unwelcome things she thought buried.

Kiki’s breath hitched, uneven and fevered with panic.

She didn’t smell like baby shampoo or school glue like other girls her age. She smelled like fear. Like someone who’d learned not to trust kindness.

And the hug—Kiki didn’t know what to do with it. It wasn’t like Howard’s awkward half-hugs, cold and quick, followed by mutters about her being “too soft.”

This hug didn’t flinch or shift. It stayed. Latifa’s arms didn’t let go, even when Kiki sobbed into her shoulder.

It scared her. She had no map for affection that didn’t come with a price.

She was a stranger—but a stranger who needed her, maybe as much as Latifa needed to be needed.

For reasons she didn’t understand, a verse from Job echoed: The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

She had lost so much—so many people, so many chances—but maybe this girl was a gift. Maybe this was her moment to give someone the safety she never had. Maybe, just maybe, she could offer Kiki something better.