“If my father were here, he’d say it’s possible that you can hear everything that’s happening,” Kiva said quietly. “He’d say it’s important that you know someone is watching over you, wanting you to live.” Kiva squeezed her hand. “He’d probably tell you a story. He used to do that for me, whenever I was sick. Him, and my—and my mother.” Kiva choked on the word. Just as memories of her father pained her, so too did those of her mother, but for different reasons. Kiva knew there was nothing her mother loved more than their family. She would have done anything to protect them. Ten years ago, her youngest son had died, and her youngest daughter and husband had been carted away to Zalindov. Kiva couldn’t imagine what her mother must have gone through after that, or how she must have felt upon receiving Kiva’s note bearing news of Faran’s death. A husband and son, both gone forever. A daughter imprisoned. Half of their family, ripped apart.

Blinking back tears, Kiva refocused on Tilda, not allowing her mind to wander any further.

“I don’t know many stories. But—” She paused, bit her lip, then went on, “My father used to tell me one when we first arrived here, repeating it over and over again. The story of how he met my mother.” Kiva wasn’t sure if she could do this, not while the memories of her family were so fresh, so painful. But she also needed this—she needed the distraction. So she made herself continue, “He’d whisper it to me at night when I couldn’t sleep, and it would chase away the sounds of the other prisoners and the barking of the dogs and the noises of the guards. Do you want to hear it?”

Tilda remained silent, and since Kiva was beginning to tremble at what was coming the next day, she decided that she might as well tell the story, if only for her own sake. Once upon a time, it had helped bring her peace; perhaps it would now, too.