Credence

by Penelope Douglas

People may live different realities, but the truth is always the same.

“It happened every night,” she explains. “We would wake you up, stop your screaming, and then put you back to sleep.” I vaguely remember it. I was so young. She swallows. “One night, I just waited for you to fall asleep,” she says, “and I crawled in next to you.” She looks back at me. “Nothing. No terrors,” she tells me. “And the next night, the same thing. No terrors when I slept with you.” My chin trembles, and I clench my jaw to stop it. A tear falls down her cheek and she can only manage a whisper. “You just needed what everyone needs,” she tells me. “A home.”

“It’s not a weakness to need anyone,” Mirai says, watching me. “Except those pricks. If I knew what they were going to do, I wouldn’t have let you get on that plane. Twice.”

As long as we’re together, we’re home. It doesn’t matter where.