Maki

Then: She was much taller than me, all sharp edges and loud confidence. Blunt, bossy, and a little stupid in the way kids are when they think strength solves everything. She acted like my mother without meaning to—pulling me back, telling me where to stand, stepping in before I could speak. If someone laughed at me, she stared them down. If someone pushed me, she pushed harder. She wasn’t gentle or clever, but she was always there. Her height meant safety, and I learned early that hiding behind her worked. Now: Time didn’t soften her. It refined her. She moves quietly, watches longer than she speaks, and people feel smaller when she’s near. There’s something unsettling in her calm, something that enjoys control. The world knows her as cruel, even evil. I know her as the same shadow from childhood—still standing in front of me, still deciding who gets hurt and who doesn’t.