“Oh,” Mira said, frowning in disappointment. She questioned if Jesse had really seen anything. It could have been new employees he’d seen that evening, and maybe they’d quit soon after, which would explain why he never saw them again. How much of what he said to her now was because he wanted to believe her, and not because it was true? She couldn’t be sure, but felt it made a difference.

“Just because I haven’t seen her doesn’t mean—doesn’t mean it’s not—” Jesse hesitated. “I think you’re seeing them too, like that day when we were kids. You wouldn’t tell anyone then, I guess because you didn’t think they’d believe you, but you can tell me now.”

This broke her. “Jesse, I tried. I went to the police station but they wouldn’t listen. I should have done more. I should have told you. I’m so sorry,” she stumbled out. It was an apology she’d waited years to say, and hearing it released something deep within her and she began to cry. She’d held it in all these years and now she couldn’t control it anymore. Her whole body shook as she cried into his shirt. She was sorry she hadn’t tried harder, she told him, sorry that she’d left Kipsen and attempted to wash her hands of everything that had happened. Sorry for trying to forget. She was sorry for so many things, too many to even begin to explain, so she kept repeating the words in the hope that it would be enough.

He reached for her hand. “I would have believed you if you told me. I hope you know that. None of this is your fault,” Jesse said after she finished. “It never was. It’s their fault for not seeing the truth, for not believing you. They should have. I wish they had. They should have believed you then.”

They remembered the feeling of their beloveds sold,

They remembered the feeling of their beloveds sold, the shouts of hallelujah! for the money bartered, and their children’s cries as they were shuffled into the arms of another, onto the wagon they went, and they remembered the moment when the coil grip of their fingers loosened, and the don’t you let go don’t you do it hold on hold on screams until the skin slip, last touch, and their hollering wail quieting as the wagon jostled along the road, and days months years of the sound continuing to echo in their hearts, subsuming all other noise. No sorrow song could quench a loss such as this, no, but it could dim it enough so they could survive, and that dulled ache they carried with them.