Skye's POV

The TV's still running the news when Dad walks in — the same clips on repeat, the courthouse steps, the flashing cameras, the words "Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity."

I grab the remote and turn it off before he can even set down his bag.

"Hey, Skye," he says, voice cautious. "Long day?"

"Yeah," I snap, "thanks for making it worse."

He blinks, taken off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I cross my arms. "You represented him."

Ace looks up from the kitchen counter where she's been cutting vegetables, knife still in hand. "Skye," she warns softly, "don't."

"No, I'm serious," I say, my voice shaking now. "You stood up there and defended Sparky — after everything he did! After Ahri, after Rex, after Chase got shot—"

"Skye," Dad interrupts, his tone calm but firm, "I didn't defend what he did. I defended the law."

"Same thing!"

"It's not."

Ace puts down the knife and comes over, wiping her hands on a towel. "Sweetheart, your father was asked to take the case because no one else would. Sparky needed someone who could represent him fairly — someone who could see the difference between evil and illness."

"Don't do that," I say, the words catching in my throat. "Don't make him sound like some victim. He killed people, Mom."

Ace sighs, sitting on the edge of the counter. "And you think he isn't living with that every second of every day? You think any of us are?"

I shake my head. "You don't get it. You didn't see it. You didn't hear it. I was there."

Dad's face softens. "I know, Skye. I know it's hard to understand. But the system has to account for people who are sick — who can't tell what's real. That's not the same as choosing to hurt someone."

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. "Then who chooses to make it okay?"

"Skye," Ace says gently, "no one's saying it's okay. But hating him won't heal you either."

Her voice cracks a little, and it throws me off. Ace never cracks.

I look away. "You don't have to forgive him. You don't have to live with what he did. I do. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. I see Chase bleeding. I see the hallway. You weren't there."

There's silence after that — the heavy kind that fills every corner of the room.

Finally, Dad says quietly, "Maybe not. But I've seen what happens when we stop believing people can get better."

That hits harder than I want it to.

I feel my throat tighten, so I grab my jacket from the hook and head toward the door. "I can't do this right now."

"Skye," Ace calls after me, "please don't go far."

"I just need air."

The door shuts behind me, and the night air bites cold against my face. I walk down the porch steps, the ache in my chest sharp and ugly.

I don't know if I'm angry at Sparky, or my dad, or myself for not being able to understand either of them.

Maybe all three.

The park's half-lit by streetlamps, the air sharp and dry.
It smells like fallen leaves and cold metal — like autumn right before winter finally settles in.

I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and keep walking. I don't even know why I came here. I just needed somewhere that wasn't home, somewhere that didn't sound like reason or forgiveness.

The swings creak in the wind. One of them moves — not empty.

Violet.

She's sitting there in her usual black hoodie, hood up, purple hair spilling out like it's glowing under the streetlight. She looks... calm, in that detached, quiet way she always does.

She sees me before I can turn around. "Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," I mutter, walking over. "Didn't think anyone came here this late."

"Could say the same about you." She kicks the dirt gently, the swing shifting with the motion. "Can't sleep either?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

She nods, like she already knew. For a minute, we just stand there in silence — the kind that doesn't feel awkward, just heavy.

Then she says it. "You're mad about Sparky."

I almost laugh. "Everyone's mad about Sparky."

"No," she says quietly. "Everyone's scared of him. You're angry."

That hits harder than it should. "He killed your best friend, Violet. You're not angry?"

Violet looks down at the ground, dragging the toe of her boot through the gravel. "I was," she says. "Still am, sometimes. But anger's loud, and grief's quiet. You can't live in both forever."

I swallow hard. "He deserves to pay."

She looks up at me — really looks — and there's no judgment, just sadness. "He is paying, Skye. Every second of his life. You think those walls and meds and voices are mercy?"

I look away. "You're just saying that because you're better than me."

"I'm not," Violet says. "I just... saw what Ahri saw in him. Before it all went wrong. She told me once that Sparky reminded her of her dad before he got help. She thought maybe she could help him too."

That makes my stomach twist. "She couldn't."

"No," Violet whispers. "But she tried. And I think she'd want you to try too — not to forgive him, but to stop letting him win by taking more from you than he already has."

My eyes sting before I can stop it. I blink fast, angry at myself.

"You think he deserves forgiveness?" I ask.

"I think forgiveness isn't about him," Violet says simply. "It's about you."

The swing creaks again, the sound thin and lonely.

For a long time, I don't answer. I just stand there, staring at the sky, the stars barely visible behind the clouds.

Finally, I whisper, "I don't know if I can."

Violet nods. "That's okay. You don't have to yet."

She stands, brushing off her jeans. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

I want to say no, but the truth is, I don't want to be alone right now.

So I nod. "Okay."

We walk in silence. And for the first time in weeks, it doesn't feel like the silence is winning.

The walk home is quiet at first — just the crunch of gravel under our shoes and the sound of wind moving through the trees. The air's colder now, sharp against my skin, but somehow it helps. Keeps me grounded.

After a while, I ask softly, "Can I ask you something?"

Violet glances over. "You can ask me anything."

"How do you... feel about all of this? About Sparky, I mean."

She exhales, her breath a cloud in the air. "That's a hard question."

"I know," I say. "I just— you were closer to Ahri than anyone. You should hate him more than I do."

Violet nods slowly. "Yeah. Maybe I should. But hate doesn't make anything easier." She looks down at the path, hands shoved in her hoodie pocket. "You know about my stuff, right?"

I frown. "Your stuff?"

"The scars," she says quietly. "I used to cut. Not deep enough to die, just... enough to feel something. It got bad for a while."

I stop walking. I don't know what to say.

She keeps talking, voice low but steady. "I was sick too, Skye. Not like Sparky — not hearing things — but sick in a way that made me want to hurt myself. And when I was, people didn't treat me like I was evil. They treated me like I needed help."

I finally manage, "That's not the same."

"No," she says gently. "But it's not completely different either."

The streetlight catches the side of her face — her eyes tired but honest. "I'm not saying what he did was okay. It wasn't. It never will be. But I know what it's like when your brain turns on you. When you want to stop the noise and there's nowhere to put it."

She kicks at a rock. "He let it get that bad. That's on him. But I can't hate him for being broken. I've been broken too."

I look down, the ground blurring. "You really think he can get better?"

"I think he's trying," she says. "And that's more than most people ever do."

For a long time, I don't respond. I just walk beside her, trying to make sense of it all — her words, her calmness, her strength.

Finally, I whisper, "You're a better person than I am."

She shakes her head. "No, Skye. I just started healing sooner."

We reach my house, the porch light glowing soft and yellow. She smiles faintly. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"Yeah," I say, though I know I won't.

She waves and walks off down the street, her hoodie blending into the dark.

I stand there for a long time, the cold biting my hands, the weight of everything sitting in my chest.

For the first time, I start to wonder if forgiveness isn't about what Sparky deserves — maybe it's about what we need to survive.

I stop halfway up the porch when I see him — Chase, sitting on the top step, hood pulled up, his crutches leaning beside him. The porch light casts him in this pale gold halo, and for a second, I think I'm imagining it.

"Hey," he says, voice soft. "Didn't mean to freak you out."

"You didn't."
I sit down next to him anyway, close enough that our shoulders touch. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs. "I could ask you the same thing. It's late."

"I went for a walk," I say quietly. "Needed to think."

"About Sparky."

I nod. "And everything else."

He studies me for a second, like he's afraid to push too hard. "You don't have to carry this, Skye. Not for me, not for Ahri, not for anyone."

"I know," I say, but my voice cracks. "It's just— I keep seeing it. Every time I close my eyes. And I hate that I still can't stop being angry."

He sighs, leaning forward on his knees. "You've got every right to be. But the hate... it eats you alive. Trust me, I know."

I glance at him. "You don't look like someone who's fine either."

He gives a small, crooked smile. "I'm not. But I'm trying. And so should you."

The wind picks up, brushing my hair into my face. He reaches out without thinking, tucks a strand behind my ear. It's such a small gesture, but it breaks something open in me.

"I hate that I can't protect you from all this," he says softly. "You worry about me like I'm going to fall apart, but I'm okay, Skye. I swear. What about you?"

I look at him — really look — and realize how tired he is. How tired we both are.

"I don't know," I admit. "But I want to be."

He nods slowly. "That's enough for now."

We sit there in silence for a while, the night humming around us — crickets, faraway traffic, the quiet rhythm of breathing that finally matches.

After a while, I lean against him, and he lets me.

For the first time in weeks, it doesn't feel like the world is closing in. It just feels... still.

And maybe, just maybe, that's what healing looks like.