Chapter 4 Keep or Burn

Jayda took a breath and hit Send.

The last line of Lana's Fire glowed on her screen, raw and heavy like a wound just stitched shut. Her hand hovered over the mouse. The InkVerse submission portal blinked: "Submission Received. Thank you for your story."

She leaned back, barely blinking.

She had done it. Poured her truth into fiction and pushed it out into the world.

Before she could exhale, the front door burst open.

Sasha stumbled in.

Jayda's stomach dropped.

"Mya-bedroom, now!" she shouted, standing fast.

Sasha was bleeding from her lip. One shoe missing. Her blouse torn. Blood streaked one side of her jeans. Her face was wild - not angry, not drunk - just... gone.

"Mom!"

Jayda rushed forward. Sasha's weight folded into her. The scent of liquor and something metallic filled the air.

"She did it again," Sasha muttered, laughing and crying all at once. "That woman-she finally-"

"Who?" Jayda held her upright. "Who did this?"

Sasha didn't answer. Her knees buckled.

Jayda laid her on the floor gently, hands trembling, heart hammering.

Mya peeked from the hallway. "Jayda-"

"Call an ambulance," Jayda snapped. "Right now. Use my phone."

Mya disappeared without a word.

Jayda pressed a cold cloth to her mother's forehead, whispering, "Stay with me. Don't you dare leave me like this."

---

The ER was loud and bright.

Jayda sat with Mya in the hallway while Sasha was wheeled away.

It was hours before a nurse finally came out.

"She's stable," she said. "Bruised ribs. Dehydrated. She's sleeping now. We've started a detox. But she'll need monitoring for a few days."

Jayda nodded slowly.

"Can we see her?"

"Tomorrow," the nurse said gently. "She needs rest more than anything tonight. So do you."

---

Back home, Jayda helped Mya into bed. She tucked her in tight, kissed her cheek.

"Is Mama gonna be okay?" Mya whispered.

"She will be," Jayda lied. "She has to be."

She closed the door and stood in the silent living room, the weight of everything closing in.

Her laptop still sat open on the table.

The confirmation from InkVerse still blinked.

She'd forgotten she sent the story.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

---

She sat back down, numb, and clicked her inbox.

No reply yet.

Just silence.

Jayda stared at the screen for a long time.

Then something inside her stirred. A whisper: Find the truth.

She got up, walked over to the broken heater behind the couch - the one Sasha always told her not to touch - and pulled it open.

Inside was a taped-up shoebox.

Old. Heavy. Secrets sleeping inside.

She opened it.

---

There was a hospital bracelet: Sasha Monroe. Jayda Monroe. 2003.

A black-and-white photo of a man standing in front of a mic, guitar slung low on his hip. Handsome. Intense. Not smiling.

On the back, it read: "Jesse Ray. Denver. 1999."

Jayda's breath caught.

She pulled out a stack of letters. Most were ripped or stained, some with smeared lipstick kisses. Some unopened.

One envelope sat alone at the bottom, marked in sharp pen:

"Keep or Burn."

She opened it.

---

> To my daughter, if I never get the guts to say this in person-

You were not a mistake. You were a moment of light in a life too full of shadows.

Your father was Jesse. A singer. A liar. A ghost before you were born.

He said he loved me, but I think he just loved the sound of his own voice.

When I told him about you, he said he'd come back.

He didn't.

I named you Jayda so you'd always have your own name, not his.

You are mine. My only reason.

I messed up. Over and over.

But I never stopped loving you.

Don't go chasing what left us.

Don't let pain make you smaller.

Burn this if it hurts too much.

Keep it if it helps you understand.

Jayda couldn't move.

Tears fell, slow and hot.

She picked up the photo again. Jesse's eyes stared back at her like they knew her already.

He left.

But here he was - buried in a shoebox under a broken heater.

And somehow, even now, she wanted to hear him explain.

---

Back in bed, Mya stirred.

Jayda walked over and sat beside her, the letter in her lap.

She whispered to the dark, "What if I'm broken, too?"

No one answered.

But for the first time, she felt something rise in her chest - not rage, not grief.

A voice.

Hers.