Chapter Twenty -Three

 Nowhere to Run

She ran.

Through the dark, empty paths of the village, past the sleeping huts and flickering oil lamps, past the hushed breaths of people who once looked at her like she carried a curse. Her feet hit the earth hard and fast, but she didn't stop. She didn't know where they were taking her—she just knew she couldn't stay.

The woman's voice still rang in her ears like a drumbeat.

"You think anyone will help you for free?"

Each word had pierced her heart like a dagger. The woman had made it sound like her only option was to sell her body, just as she had done. Her worth could only be measured by what she gave up, not by what she held on to.

Was it true? Was there really no other way to survive?

She didn't want to believe it.

The night wind cut through her thin clothes, cold and biting, but she kept moving. Her stomach twisted in knots from hunger, but she forced herself to ignore it. She had gone hungry before—what was one more night?

The only thing that mattered now was finding somewhere—anywhere—that didn't stink of shame, that didn't come with hands grabbing and voices whispering filthy promises in the dark.

At the edge of the village, where the huts gave way to thick trees and silence, she saw a shed—broken, leaning, forgotten. It looked like it hadn't been used in years, the wood swollen from rain, the smell of dust and old dampness lingering like a shadow.

But it had four walls and a roof.

It would have to do.

She pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through a crack in the roof, painting the floor in a silver line. Curling up in a corner, she hugged her knees to her chest. Her thin arms barely wrapped around her shaking body.

She closed her eyes and tried to rest.

But sleep did not come.

Only memories.

She saw her mother's face—darkened by hardship, marked by dirt and sweat, yet strangely beautiful. She remembered how her mother had dug through garbage bins just to find a piece of bread, how she had chased rats away from half-eaten meals with the fury of a lioness.

And then the laughter. Not joy, no. That bitter, almost mocking laugh her mother used whenever people insulted her, called her mad, and treated her like she was less than human.

"Because they fear what they don't understand," her mother had said once, staring blankly at the sky.

And now… now she was gone.

Tears slipped silently down the girl's cheeks. She missed her. She missed her warmth, her songs, even her madness. Because in that madness, there had been love. Maybe not the kind that wore fine clothes or lived in big houses. But love, still.

She wondered what her mother would say if she could see her now—dirty, tired, and running from a life she never chose.

Would she tell her to fight?

To endure?

To give in?

Or to dream?

She didn't know.

She only knew one thing: she would not become like the woman in that house—the one who used girls like coins and fed them lies wrapped in fake kindness.

She would not trade her dignity for a plate of rice or a place to sleep.

But the question screamed in her head, louder than the silence:

How will I survive?

She had no money. No family. No one cared whether she lived or died. The village had already judged her by her mother's madness. They had laughed at her hunger, turned away from her tears, and now, the only hand stretched out to her came with a price too high.

She sat up and looked around the shed—its broken pieces, its cobwebs, its emptiness.

It was just like her.

Broken.

Unwanted.

Alone.

But maybe… not useless.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and stared out at the growing light. Dawn was coming. The birds were beginning to stir. The first cock crowed somewhere in the distance.

A new day.

It didn't look very different from the one before it—but it was still new. Still untouched. Still full of the unknown.

And maybe… just maybe… that meant hope.

She could not stay here. That was certain.

This village—this cruel, small place where people only saw her as the mad woman's daughter—had nothing left to offer her.

She needed to leave.

But where?

The world outside was big. And scary. And full of people like the woman in the house.

Yet… she couldn't go back.

Not ever.

Even if she starved, even if her feet bled from walking too far, even if she never found safety—she would rather die than live a life that robbed her of her soul.

So, she knelt in that shed, her knees on the cold floor, her fingers gripping her skirt, and for the first time in a long time, she whispered something soft and trembling into the quiet:

"God… if You see me… if You hear me… show me where to go. Please."

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't filled with big words. It was just her heart—raw and aching—crying out into the sky.

And somehow, even though there was no answer, no sign, no voice, she felt a small warmth in her chest.

Like maybe… she had been heard.

She rose slowly and stepped outside, barefoot and bruised, wearing nothing but determination and hope.

The road ahead was long. She didn't know where it led.

But she took the first step.

Then another.

And another.

She walked past the mango tree where children had once thrown stones at her. Past the well where women gossiped about her mother. Past the broken memories that tried to chain her to the past.

She walked away from the village.

Away from her shame.

Away from the echo of cruel laughter and whispered insults.

She was not just the mad woman's daughter.

She was a girl.

A girl who still had a voice.

A girl who still had a heart that could dream.

A girl who refused to sell her soul just to survive.

The road stretched ahead, empty but open.

She did not know what she would find.

She did not know who she would meet.

But she knew this:

She would keep walking.

And somehow, somewhere, she would find a new name.

A new beginning.

And maybe… just maybe… a home.