The blues had ended.
Neither woman noticed.
The kitchen sat quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Outside, water dripped from the gutters.
Inside, something much older was beginning to surface.
The friend didn't speak.
She was afraid to.
Some memories were like wild animals.
Move too fast and they disappear.
The woman stared at the countertop.
Not really seeing it.
Not really seeing anything.
"I think I remember."
The words barely left her lips.
The friend waited.
Patient.
Still.
The woman swallowed.
Her throat suddenly felt dry.
Not from the wine.
From fear.
A different kind of fear.
The kind that lives in old memories.
The kind that waits years before introducing itself.
"What do you remember?"
The question came softly.
The woman closed her eyes.
And suddenly she wasn't sitting in her kitchen anymore.
She was standing in a hallway.
Ten years old.
Maybe younger.
The details were blurry.
But the feeling wasn't.
Never the feeling.
The hallway smelled clean.
Laundry detergent.
Furniture polish.
The scent of a house that took pride in itself.
A house where adults believed children were safe.
She remembered standing there.
Frozen.
Listening.
Waiting.
Looking.
For somebody.
Anybody.
"What happened?"
The friend asked gently.
The woman rubbed her arms.
Trying to shake off the memory.
Trying to shake off the feeling.
Neither worked.
"I remember not wanting to go."
The friend frowned.
"Go where?"
The woman shook her head.
"I don't know."
The answer frustrated her.
The pieces were there.
Just out of reach.
Like trying to remember a dream seconds after waking up.
"I just remember looking around."
The kitchen felt colder.
The woman continued.
"I remember hoping somebody would walk through the door."
The friend stayed quiet.
"I remember looking for my cousins."
The woman's voice trembled.
"I remember wishing somebody else was there."
The friend felt her heart sink.
Because children usually don't think that way without a reason.
The woman looked toward the darkness beyond the window.
"That's what keeps bothering me."
"What?"
The friend asked.
"I can't remember why."
Silence.
The woman laughed bitterly.
"How do you remember fear but not remember the reason?"
The friend didn't answer.
Some questions don't have answers.
Not immediately.
The woman continued.
"For years I told myself I was imagining things."
The friend nodded.
"Maybe I was just shy."
"Maybe I was just nervous."
"Maybe I was just a weird kid."
Her voice cracked.
"But the older I get, the less I believe that."
The room fell silent.
Outside, a car passed.
Its headlights briefly swept across the kitchen.
Then disappeared.
The woman stared at the floor.
"I remember another thing."
The friend immediately looked up.
The woman hesitated.
The memory embarrassed her.
Even now.
Even after all these years.
"I used to think something was wrong with me."
The friend frowned.
"Why?"
The woman looked away.
Because saying it out loud made it real.
"I remember doing things that little girls shouldn't know about."
The friend remained calm.
The woman appreciated that.
Most people got uncomfortable.
Most people changed the subject.
Most people wanted survivors to skip the ugly parts.
Not her.
Not tonight.
"I remember humping pillows."
The words landed awkwardly.
Heavy.
Embarrassing.
Honest.
The woman immediately looked down.
Ashamed.
The friend reached for her hand.
"No."
The woman shook her head.
"It's embarrassing."
"No."
The friend squeezed her hand.
"It's information."
The woman looked up.
Surprised.
The friend continued.
"You were a child."
The woman nodded.
"But what child does that?"
The friend didn't rush her answer.
Because this mattered.
"A lot more children than people realize."
The woman blinked.
The friend continued.
"Sometimes it's normal childhood behavior."
The woman nodded.
"And sometimes?"
The question lingered.
The friend sighed.
"And sometimes it's connected to things children have seen, experienced, or been exposed to."
The room grew quiet.
The woman stared into space.
Her stomach twisted.
Because that's what she'd been afraid of.
Not the answer.
The possibility.
The possibility that her fears weren't random.
The possibility that her discomfort wasn't imaginary.
The possibility that little pieces of her childhood had been trying to tell a story all along.
The friend watched her carefully.
"What are you thinking?"
The woman laughed.
A sad laugh.
"A thousand things."
"Like?"
The woman looked up.
Tears filled her eyes.
Not falling.
Just waiting.
"Like maybe I've spent my whole life trying to solve a puzzle without knowing there was a puzzle."
The friend nodded slowly.
That made sense.
A lot of sense.
The woman stared toward the family photos hanging in the hallway.
Pictures of birthdays.
Graduations.
Holidays.
Smiles.
Memories.
Proof of a life built despite the pain.
"You know what's crazy?"
The friend smiled softly.
"What?"
The woman looked at one picture in particular.
A smiling child.
Bright eyes.
Big grin.
Innocent.
Trusting.
Happy.
"I don't feel sorry for that little girl."
The friend frowned.
"You don't?"
The woman shook her head.
"No."
A tear finally slipped down her cheek.
"I feel angry for her."
Silence.
Deep silence.
The kind that reaches places words can't.
The friend let that sit.
The woman wiped her face.
"She deserved somebody to notice."
The words broke something open.
"I was right there."
Another tear.
"Right there."
The friend felt her own eyes burning.
The woman looked away.
Toward the darkness.
Toward the memories.
Toward the questions.
And then she whispered something she hadn't admitted before.
Something that frightened her even now.
"I think he knew I wouldn't tell."
The kitchen went silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Because both women understood that the story had just crossed another line.
And there was no going back now.