Link to part 1: https://themuslimahtigress.blogspot.com/2014/01/redemption-part-1.html?m=1
The landing was unexpectedly soft. The thunder and rain had quieted, but the silence that followed was worse. It pressed against him — heavy— as though the very air judged him.
He tried to move, but the ground beneath him wasn’t ground at all. It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of something ancient. The voice returned. Low and steady. Too calm for this place.“Do you know why you are here?”He opened his mouth, but the words came out brittle.
“I. Don’t. Belong. Here.”
"No one ever thinks they do.”
Grayish blue light flashed — but not lightning this time, a memory. A table, a home, a woman’s tired face.A little girl clutching a broken toy.His own voice rising, sharp, unkind.He flinched. “Stop it.”
“You told yourself it was just anger. Stress. That they would understand.” He covered his ears, but the memories kept playing — louder than thunder ever could. Each one replayed not as images, but as feeling. The sting of words thrown carelessly. The silence afterward. The hurt in their eyes that he never stayed long enough to see. “Every wound leaves an echo,” the voice continued. “Some echoes grow into storms.” He fell to his knees. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Intention is not the same as kindness.” The air grew colder. The electric storm around him, began to twist upward, pulling at him, lifting shards of the past into the darkness.He saw his reflection in them — distorted, unfamiliar. Was this who he had become? A man whose voice caused more harm than silence ever could? He pressed his palms against the soft earth. “I want to make it right.” For the first time, the voice softened. “Then remember.”
And just like that, the darkness split open. A faint warmth touched his hands, seeping into his chest — not forgiveness, not yet — but the beginning of something like it. He didn’t rise. He just stayed there, breathing, as the storm faded into whispers.
