The trees rustled in the dark, wind slipping through the camp's edge like a whisper. Annie sat frozen beside the stream, arms hugged tight around her knees, still trembling. The ache in her chest hadn't dulled—just buried under layers of guilt and longing.
She hadn't even noticed the soft steps until a voice gently cut the silence.
"Annie?"
She looked up, startled. Historia stood a few feet away, her brows pulled tight, hands clasped together. No suspicion. Just concern. Just… warmth.
"What do you want?" Annie asked, more brittle than she'd meant.
"I saw you leave camp. You've been gone a while." Historia stepped closer, crouched beside her. "You're shaking."
Annie turned her face away. "I'm fine."
"You're not."
The words weren't accusing. Just soft. Steady. Like someone offering their hand without asking for anything back.
And Annie couldn't hold it anymore.
Her throat closed. Her lips trembled. She shook her head once—violently—and squeezed her eyes shut.
"I don't want to do this anymore," she whispered.
Historia blinked. "Do what?"
But Annie didn't answer. She just shook her head again, faster, tears breaking loose now—hot and silent, carving down her cheeks. Her hands gripped her sleeves so tight her knuckles ached.
"I'm so tired," she breathed. "It's all wrong. Everything's wrong."
Historia slowly moved closer. Her presence was quiet, not pressing. Just there. She reached out and gently touched Annie's shoulder, and when Annie didn't flinch, she moved beside her, letting her lean without a word.
Annie did.
For the first time in years, she let someone hold her.
She sobbed softly into Historia's shoulder, hands still curled into fists. Her body was all fight and no breath, grief spilling from places she hadn't let anyone touch—not even herself.
Historia held her.
"You don't have to tell me," she murmured, fingers running lightly over Annie's back. "But I'm here. Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."
Annie squeezed her eyes shut. You'd hate me if you knew.
But she didn't say it.
For a few minutes, the weight of the world lifted just enough. Not gone. But bearable. And as Annie curled into the warmth of someone who didn't know her crimes, she allowed herself the smallest, most dangerous hope:
Maybe I don't have to be this monster forever.