Care and Love

The fluorescent lights of the New Hope Community Shelter buzzed like trapped wasps, casting a sickly glow over the rows of folding tables and metal chairs. Wallace adjusted the too-tight collar of his polo shirt-navy blue, the same as the other volunteers-and glanced at the cross hanging above the serving counter. Its shadow stretched long and thin across the floor, a dagger pointed at his chest.

“Wallace! Quit dawdling and grab the ladle.”

Pastor Mark’s voice cut through the clatter of trays, sharp as the creases in his button-down. Wallace flinched, nearly dropping the stack of napkins in his hands. The shelter director stood by the industrial soup pots, arms crossed over his broad chest, his salt-and-pepper beard twitching with disapproval.

“Yes, sir,” Wallace mumbled. He kept his eyes down as he shuffled toward the counter, where steam rose in greasy spirals from vats of chicken noodle. The scent of overboiled carrots made his stomach churn-or maybe it was the way Pastor Mark’s gaze followed him, heavy with expectation.

Act normal. Just be normal.

He’d repeated the mantra all through junior year, through locker room panic and his mother’s lectures about “God’s plan for young men.” Volunteering here was supposed to be his penance, his parents said. A way to “build character” instead of wasting summers at the mall. But the shelter’s cracked linoleum and stained aprons felt more like a sanctuary than church ever had. Here, no one asked why he lingered near the women’s restroom or why his hands shook when someone called him son.

“Need a hand with those?”

Wallace turned to find a girl his age leaning against the counter, her volunteer shirt untucked and rolled at the sleeves to show tattooed forearms-a sleeve of ferns and songbirds. Her name tag read Gail in loopy cursive, the i dotted with a tiny heart.

“I’ve got it,” Wallace said too quickly, fumbling the ladle. Broth splashed onto his wrist.

Gail raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.” She grabbed a rag and tossed it to him, her cropped hair catching the light like polished mahogany. “Relax, newbie. The holy terror’s too busy lecturing Mrs. Kowalski about ‘modest attire’ to notice your existential crisis.”

Wallace followed her nod to where Pastor Mark loomed over an elderly woman in a moth-eaten cardigan, his voice low but carrying. “-and we must set an example, Mrs. Kowalski. Those shorts are hardly appropriate for God’s house.”

The woman hunched deeper into her chair, a bruised peach trembling in her hands.

Gail rolled her eyes. “Real shepherding there, huh? Protecting the flock from… knees.” She plucked a dinner roll from the tray and bit into it defiantly. “Come on. Let’s get the drinks station set up before he finds a new target.”

Wallace trailed her to the corner, where a dented cooler sweated onto the floor. He’d noticed Gail before-the way she laughed with the guests, high-fiving the kids and slipping extra cookies to the teens. Once, he’d seen her calmly correct a donor who’d misgendered a resident: “They use they/them, actually. Easy mistake!” She’d smiled, but her eyes were flint.

“So.” Gail heaved a stack of paper cups onto the table. “You’re Wallace, right? The mystery man who never talks.”

He stiffened. “I talk.”

“Uh-huh. To soup.” She grinned, nudging him with her elbow. “Relax, I’m messing with you. You’re the only one here who doesn’t treat the guests like zoo exhibits. I respect that.”

Heat crept up his neck. “They’re people. Not projects.”

“Preach.” Gail’s smile softened. She started lining up juice boxes-grape, apple, not the cheap orange Pastor Mark insisted on-and Wallace watched her hands. Chipped black polish, a silver ring shaped like a feather. He wondered what it would feel like to have nails that color, to wear a name tag that said something else.

The dining hall doors swung open, and a group of teenagers slouched in-hoodies drawn tight, backpacks dragging. Wallace’s breath caught. The tallest, a lanky kid with faded green hair, paused to adjust their beanie, fingers brushing the pronoun pin on their strap: THEY/THEM.

“Jay’s here,” Gail said quietly. “They’ve been couch-hopping since their mom kicked them out. Pastor Dickhead thinks they’re ‘confused.’”

Jay caught Gail’s wave and shuffled over, shoulders hunched against the room. Up close, their acne scars and chipped nail polish made them look both older and painfully young.

“Hey, Jay.” Gail slid a juice box across the table. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” Jay’s voice was raspy, like they’d been crying. They glanced at Wallace, then away.

“This is Wallace.” Gail nudged him. “He’s cool.”

Jay nodded, picking at their sleeve. Wallace’s throat tightened. He knew that look-the hollowed-out fear of being seen and unseen all at once.

“The, um. The soup’s good today,” he managed.

Jay snorted. “It’s never good.”

Gail laughed, bright and sudden, and Wallace felt something unclench in his chest.

“Wallace! Front and center.”

Pastor Mark’s bark shattered the moment. Wallace turned to find him holding a clipboard, his pen tapping an impatient rhythm. “Time for headcounts. I need you to read the names.”

The room tilted. No. Not that.

“I can do it,” Gail said, half-rising.

“This is a man’s responsibility,” Pastor Mark said, without looking at her. “Wallace.”

The clipboard felt like a live wire in his hands. He stared at the list-thirty names, each a knife:

James Abbott

Maria Chen

Wallace Green

His vision blurred. The W yawned like a wound.

“Begin,” Pastor Mark said.

Wallace’s mouth moved on autopilot. “James Abbott?”

“Here.”

“Maria Chen?”

A hand rose by the windows.

“Wallace Green?”

Silence.

“Wallace Green?”

Gail’s foot brushed his under the table. Jay stared at their lap.

“Present,” Wallace whispered.

The room blurred. He finished the list in a daze, the sound of his deadname ringing in his ears long after the last here. When he handed the clipboard back, Pastor Mark’s frown deepened.

“Stand up straight, son. You’re slouching like a girl.”

The words hit like a slap. Wallace fled to the kitchen, where the industrial dishwasher’s roar drowned out the voices in his head-girlgirlgirlgirl-until his hands stopped shaking.

He didn’t notice the old woman watching him from the corner, her eyes sharp as broken glass.

Chapter 2: Kindness in Secret

Wallace liked the quiet hours at the shelter-the ones before dinner, when the guests drifted in from the heat, claiming their favorite seats with old blankets or battered duffel bags. The fluorescent lights didn’t seem so harsh then, and the echo of footsteps on linoleum was softened by the low hum of fans and the clink of ice in plastic cups.

He found Jay in the rec room, hunched over a battered chessboard. Their beanie was pulled low, hiding their eyes, and their backpack sat at their feet like a loyal dog. Wallace hovered in the doorway, uncertain.

“Want to play?” Jay asked without looking up.

Wallace hesitated. He’d never been good at chess. “I don’t really know how.”

Jay shrugged. “I’ll teach you. It’s not about winning, anyway. It’s about having somewhere to be.”

Wallace slid into the cracked vinyl chair across from them. Jay moved a pawn forward, then waited. Wallace mirrored the move, and they settled into a rhythm, the room filling with the soft click of pieces and the distant rattle of pots in the kitchen.

“Gail says you’re cool,” Jay said after a while.

Wallace’s cheeks warmed. “She’s nice. I’m just… here to help.”

Jay snorted softly. “You actually talk to us. Most of the volunteers just act like we’re invisible, or like we’re about to steal something.”

Wallace looked down at the board. “I’m sorry. People can be… not great.”

Jay shrugged again, but Wallace saw the tension in their shoulders. “You get used to it. Or you pretend to.”

A silence stretched between them, comfortable in its honesty. Wallace risked a glance at Jay’s face, saw the faint bruises under their eyes, the way their jaw clenched when someone walked past the door.

“Do you have somewhere to go tonight?” Wallace asked quietly.

Jay shook their head. “Not really. Couch-surfing, mostly. Sometimes the park, if the weather’s good. Pastor Mark says I can’t stay here overnight unless I ‘make a decision’ about my gender.” Jay’s voice twisted on the last word, bitter and tired.

Wallace’s stomach twisted. “That’s not fair.”

Jay shrugged. “Nothing is.”

They played in silence for a few more moves. Wallace lost, but Jay didn’t gloat. They just reset the board, fingers moving with practiced care.

“Do you ever wish you could just… be someone else?” Jay asked suddenly.

Wallace’s throat tightened. “All the time.”

Jay looked up, their eyes searching. “Yeah. Me too.”

Gail appeared in the doorway, arms full of board games. “Hey, chess nerds. We’re starting Uno in the lounge. You in?”

Jay grinned, the tension easing from their face. “Only if I get to be on your team.”

Gail winked. “Deal. Wallace, you coming?”

Wallace hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jay and Gail disappeared down the hall, laughter echoing behind them. Wallace lingered, staring at the chessboard. He thought about Jay’s question, about the ache in his own chest whenever he looked in the mirror.

He wanted to be someone else. He wanted to be real.

He packed up the chess pieces and carried them back to the supply closet. The room was cramped and smelled of bleach, but it was private. Wallace closed the door and leaned against the shelves, letting himself breathe.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through old photos-birthday parties, family trips, his mother’s forced smiles and his father’s stern eyes. He didn’t see himself in any of them. Just a boy-shaped shadow, always on the outside.

His phone buzzed-a text from Gail.

Gail:
Uno is getting heated. Jay says you’re scared to lose. Prove them wrong?

Wallace smiled despite himself. He texted back:

Wallace:
On my way. Tell Jay I’m bringing my A-game.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and headed for the lounge.

The Uno game was chaos. Gail dealt cards with the flair of a Vegas dealer, Jay made up rules as they went, and Wallace found himself laughing more than he had in months. The other volunteers drifted in and out, some joining the game, others just watching. Pastor Mark passed by once, his eyes narrowing at the noise, but Gail just smiled sweetly and waved.

After the game, Gail and Wallace helped clean up. Jay lingered, stacking chairs and humming under their breath.

“Hey, Wallace?” Jay said as they finished.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For… you know. Treating me like a person.”

Wallace ducked his head. “You are a person.”

Jay smiled, small and real. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

Gail slung an arm around Wallace’s shoulders as Jay left. “You’re good with people, you know that?”

Wallace shrugged. “I just… try to be kind.”

Gail squeezed his shoulder. “That’s more than most.”

They finished cleaning in companionable silence. When they were done, Gail leaned against the counter, studying Wallace.

“You ever come to the LGBTQ+ group at the library?” she asked.

Wallace shook his head. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just show up. It’s mostly nerds and weirdos. My people.”

Wallace smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

Gail watched him for a moment, then nodded. “No pressure. Just… if you ever want to talk, I’m around.”

Wallace nodded, grateful and terrified all at once.

Dinner was a blur of trays and chatter. Wallace moved through the motions-soup, bread, fruit-his mind elsewhere. He watched Jay joke with a group of teens, saw the way Gail floated from table to table, laughing and listening. He envied their ease, their confidence.

After cleanup, Wallace found himself in the kitchen, washing dishes with Mrs. Kowalski. The old woman hummed hymns under her breath, her hands red from the hot water.

“You’re a good boy, Wallace,” she said suddenly.

He flinched, nearly dropping a plate. “Thanks.”

She glanced at him, her eyes sharp. “You remind me of my granddaughter. Always helping, always worrying.”

Wallace swallowed. “Is she… okay?”

Mrs. Kowalski smiled, sad and proud. “She’s herself. That’s all I ever wanted for her.”

Wallace blinked back tears. “That’s… good.”

Mrs. Kowalski patted his hand. “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are, dear. Not even yourself.”

Wallace nodded, unable to speak.

He left the shelter as the sun was setting, the sky streaked with orange and purple. Gail walked with him to the bus stop, their shadows long on the sidewalk.

“You did good today,” Gail said.

Wallace shrugged. “I just played chess and lost at Uno.”

Gail grinned. “You made Jay smile. That’s a win in my book.”

They stood in silence, the evening air cool and gentle. Wallace wanted to say something-to ask how Gail made it look so easy, to confess the ache in his chest-but the words tangled in his throat.

The bus rumbled up, headlights cutting through the dusk. Gail squeezed his shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”

Wallace nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He boarded the bus and watched Gail wave as it pulled away. The city blurred past the windows-neon signs, darkened storefronts, families gathered on porches. Wallace pressed his forehead to the glass and closed his eyes.

At home, the house was quiet. His parents were in the living room, the TV tuned to a news channel. His father glanced up as Wallace slipped through the door.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry. We had a lot of dishes.”

His mother frowned. “You need to focus on your responsibilities, Wallace. Not waste time with those people.”

Wallace nodded, biting back a retort. He climbed the stairs to his room, the familiar ache settling in his chest.

He sat on his bed and pulled out his phone. A new message from Gail waited for him.

Gail:
You’re not alone, you know. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.

Wallace stared at the screen, tears pricking his eyes. He typed a reply, then deleted it. He didn’t know what to say.

He set his phone aside and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Jay, about Mrs. Kowalski’s granddaughter, about the way Gail moved through the world like she belonged.

He wanted that. He wanted to be seen, to be real.

He closed his eyes and made a wish-not out loud, not even in words. Just a silent, desperate hope that tomorrow would be different.

The next morning, Wallace arrived at the shelter early. The air was crisp, the sky washed clean by the night’s rain. He found Jay sitting on the steps, knees drawn to their chest.

“Hey,” Wallace said, sitting beside them.

Jay glanced over, eyes red. “Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Wallace hesitated, then offered, “You could crash at my place. My folks… they’d freak, but I could sneak you in.”

Jay shook their head. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. Just needed somewhere to sit.”

They sat in silence, the city waking around them.

“You’re a good person, Wallace,” Jay said quietly.

Wallace looked away. “I’m just trying.”

Jay smiled, small and real. “That’s enough.”

The shelter doors opened, and Gail stepped out, waving. “Come on, you two. Breakfast isn’t going to eat itself.”

They stood, stretching stiff limbs. Jay nudged Wallace. “Thanks.”

Wallace smiled. “Anytime.”

Inside, the shelter was warm and bright. Wallace felt something shift in his chest-a tiny spark of hope, fragile but real.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But for now, he had friends, and kindness, and the promise of something more.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Chapter 3: The First Stand

The next week at the shelter was a blur of routine: trays of soup, stacks of napkins, and the steady, comforting rhythm of chores. Wallace found solace in the repetition. He liked the way the shelter’s chaos faded into the background when he was busy, the way he could lose himself in the simple act of helping. Each night, he left feeling a little less invisible, a little more real.

But on Friday, everything changed.

It started like any other afternoon. Wallace arrived early, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his polo rolled up against the heat. He found Gail in the kitchen, humming along to a playlist on her phone as she chopped carrots with the confidence of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“Hey, chef,” Wallace greeted, grabbing an apron from the hook.

Gail grinned. “Hey yourself. You ready for another round of ‘guess what’s in the soup’?”

He laughed. “As long as it’s not last week’s mystery meat.”

Gail leaned in, her voice low. “Between you and me, I think the mystery is that it’s not actually meat.”

Wallace snorted, and for a moment, the world felt light and easy.

Jay arrived a few minutes later, their backpack slung low, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Wallace waved them over, and together the three fell into their usual routine: prepping vegetables, setting tables, and trading quiet jokes.

As the afternoon wore on, the shelter filled with the usual crowd: tired parents with restless children, teens with nowhere else to go, and the older regulars who knew the staff by name. Wallace liked the way the shelter felt at this hour-alive, hopeful, a little less lonely.

But then the city officials arrived.

They came in pairs: two men in crisp shirts and shiny shoes, clipboards in hand. Wallace recognized them from previous visits. They always walked through the shelter like they owned it, noses wrinkled at the smell of sweat and soup, eyes darting over the guests as if searching for trouble.

Pastor Mark greeted them at the door, his smile tight. “Gentlemen. What brings you by today?”

“Routine check,” the taller official said, glancing around. “We’ve had complaints about… inappropriate conduct in the restrooms.”

Wallace stiffened. He saw Jay freeze, their hands tightening on their backpack.

“We run a clean operation,” Pastor Mark said, voice clipped. “But you’re welcome to look around.”

The officials nodded and split up, one heading for the kitchen, the other making a beeline for the bathrooms. Wallace’s heart pounded. He caught Gail’s eye, and she gave him a worried look.

Jay slipped away from the table, shoulders hunched. Wallace followed, his gut twisting.

He found Jay in the hallway outside the restrooms, eyes darting nervously.

“They always do this,” Jay whispered. “Last time, they made me show them my ID. Said I was in the wrong bathroom.”

Wallace swallowed. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Jay shook their head. “Doesn’t matter. They don’t care.”

The official rounded the corner, clipboard in hand. He looked at Jay, then at the sign on the bathroom door: All Genders Welcome-a sign Gail had made and taped up herself.

“You,” the official said, pointing at Jay. “What’s your name?”

Jay’s mouth worked silently for a moment. “Jay.”

“Full name.”

Jay hesitated. “Jaylin Rivera.”

The official scribbled something on his clipboard. “And what are your pronouns?”

Jay’s cheeks flushed. “They/them.”

The official’s lips thinned. “And which restroom did you use?”

Jay’s voice was barely audible. “The one on the left.”

The official turned to Pastor Mark, who had appeared behind them. “Is this… policy? Letting anyone use any restroom?”

Pastor Mark’s eyes flicked to Jay, then to Wallace. “We try to accommodate everyone, but we also have to follow city guidelines.”

The official nodded. “I’ll need to see your ID, Jaylin.”

Jay fumbled in their backpack, hands shaking. Wallace watched, anger rising in his chest.

“Is this really necessary?” Wallace asked, stepping forward.

The official ignored him. “ID, please.”

Jay handed over a battered wallet. The official flipped through the cards, then held up Jay’s school ID.

“This says ‘female.’” He looked at Jay, then at the bathroom door. “You used the men’s room?”

Jay shook their head. “I used the all-gender one.”

The official sighed, as if inconvenienced. “You need to use the restroom that matches your legal gender. That’s the policy.”

Wallace’s hands clenched into fists. “That’s not fair. The sign says ‘all genders.’”

The official turned on him. “And you are?”

Wallace swallowed. “Just a volunteer. But this isn’t right.”

Pastor Mark stepped in, his voice smooth. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Thank you, gentlemen.”

The officials nodded and walked away, satisfied. Jay stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.

Wallace put a hand on their arm. “I’m sorry.”

Jay shrugged him off, tears in their eyes. “Don’t. It’s always like this.”

Gail appeared, face stormy. “What happened?”

Wallace explained, voice trembling with anger. Gail’s jaw tightened.

“This is bullshit,” she said. “We’re supposed to be helping people, not making them feel worse.”

Pastor Mark returned, his expression hard. “I need to speak with you, Wallace. Now.”

Wallace followed him to the office, dread pooling in his stomach.

Pastor Mark closed the door and leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “You need to learn your place, Wallace. We have rules for a reason. If you can’t follow them, maybe this isn’t the right place for you.”

Wallace stared at the floor. “I just wanted to help.”

Pastor Mark’s voice softened, but his eyes were cold. “You’re a good kid. But you need to remember who you are. Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand.”

Wallace nodded, biting back tears. “Yes, sir.”

Pastor Mark dismissed him with a wave.

Wallace left the office, heart pounding. He found Gail and Jay in the rec room, both looking shaken.

“You okay?” Gail asked.

Jay shook their head. “I’m leaving. I can’t stay here.”

Wallace grabbed their arm. “Don’t. Please. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jay looked at him, eyes wide and scared. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll just keep coming after me. After people like me.”

Wallace’s anger flared. “Then we’ll fight back. We’ll make them see us.”

Gail smiled, fierce and proud. “Damn right we will.”

Jay hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay. For now.”

They spent the rest of the evening together, playing cards and telling stories. Wallace felt something shift inside him-a sense of purpose, a spark of hope.

After dinner, as they cleaned up, Gail pulled Wallace aside.

“You did good today,” she said. “Standing up for Jay. That took guts.”

Wallace shrugged. “It didn’t feel like enough.”

“It was,” Gail said. “You made a difference.”

Wallace smiled, the weight in his chest a little lighter.

As they left the shelter, Jay hugged them both. “Thanks. For everything.”

Wallace watched them disappear into the night, hope flickering in his chest.

At home, Wallace’s parents were waiting.

His father sat at the kitchen table, Bible open in front of him. His mother hovered by the stove, arms crossed.

“Sit,” his father said.

Wallace obeyed, heart pounding.

“We got a call from Pastor Mark,” his mother said. “He said you were… disruptive.”

Wallace swallowed. “I was just trying to help.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You embarrassed the church. You embarrassed us.”

Wallace looked at his hands. “I’m sorry.”

His mother sighed. “We just want what’s best for you, Wallace. You need to remember who you are.”

Wallace nodded, but inside, something was breaking.

That night, Wallace lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about Jay, about Gail, about the way Pastor Mark’s words had stung.

He wanted to be someone else. He wanted to be brave.

He closed his eyes and made a wish-a real wish, whispered into the darkness.

“I wish I could be myself. I wish I could help. I wish I could be real.”

He fell asleep with tears on his cheeks.

He dreamed of the shelter, of laughter and light. He saw Gail, smiling, reaching out her hand. He saw Jay, standing tall and proud. He saw himself-not Wallace, but someone new. Someone whole.

A voice whispered in his ear, soft and kind.

“Your heart will be rewarded.”

He woke with the sunrise, hope blooming in his chest.

Chapter 4: The Mysterious Guest

The next morning, Wallace woke to the sound of rain tapping against his window. For a moment, he lay still, letting the gray light fill his room. His pillow was damp from tears he barely remembered shedding. His wish from the night before echoed in his mind, fragile and impossible.

He moved through the motions of breakfast in a haze. His mother’s voice was sharp as ever-reminding him to tuck in his shirt, to “act like a young man,” to remember Pastor Mark’s “good advice.” Wallace nodded, barely listening. He felt like a ghost in his own home, a shadow slipping from room to room.

At the shelter, the storm had driven most of the guests indoors early. The air was thick with the smell of wet clothes and instant coffee. Wallace shook out his umbrella and slipped into the kitchen, where Gail was already stacking trays of bread.

“Morning, sunshine,” she teased, but her eyes were gentle. “Rough night?”

Wallace shrugged. “Just tired.”

Gail handed him a mug of cocoa, the steam curling between them. “You know, you don’t have to do this alone.”

He looked at her, searching for the words. “Do you ever feel like… you’re not really here? Like you’re just pretending to be someone?”

Gail’s smile faded. “All the time, before I came out. But you can talk to me, Wallace. Really.”

He nodded, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he sipped the cocoa and watched the rain streak down the window.

The morning passed in a blur of chores. Wallace helped Mrs. Kowalski sort donated clothes, then joined Jay in the rec room for a game of checkers. Jay was quieter than usual, their eyes flicking to the door every time it opened.

“Are you okay?” Wallace asked, moving his piece.

Jay shrugged. “Just tired of fighting. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear.”

Wallace nodded. “Me too.”

Jay glanced at him, something like understanding passing between them.

Lunch was busier than usual. The shelter’s regulars shuffled in, shaking off umbrellas and muttering about the weather. Wallace moved through the dining hall, refilling coffee cups and trading quiet jokes with the guests. He felt a little lighter, a little more himself.

That’s when he saw her.

She was sitting alone at a table near the window, her gray hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her raincoat was patched and faded, her hands small and birdlike around a chipped mug. She watched the room with sharp, clear eyes, missing nothing.

Wallace brought her a fresh cup of coffee. “Would you like some soup, ma’am?”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Thank you, dear. That would be lovely.”

He brought her a bowl and sat across from her, curiosity getting the better of him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

She stirred her soup, her gaze never leaving his face. “I don’t come often. Only when the weather calls for it.”

Wallace smiled, unsure what to say.

She studied him for a moment, then leaned in. “You have a kind heart, Wallace. But you carry a heavy burden.”

He blinked, startled. “I-I guess.”

She reached across the table and patted his hand. Her touch was warm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Kindness is rare in this world. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”

Wallace swallowed, his throat tight. “I’ll try.”

She smiled again, then sipped her soup. “You remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who wished to be seen.”

He looked down, embarrassed. “I don’t think anyone really sees me.”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps you haven’t looked in the right mirror.”

Before he could respond, Gail appeared at his side. “Everything okay here?”

Wallace nodded. “Just talking.”

Gail smiled at the woman. “If you need anything, let us know.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Thank you, dear. You’re both very lucky to have each other.”

Gail blushed, and Wallace felt his cheeks warm as well.

They moved on to the next table, but Wallace kept glancing back at the woman. There was something about her-something familiar and strange all at once.

After lunch, Wallace found Jay sitting in the hallway, staring out at the rain.

“Hey,” he said, sitting beside them.

Jay didn’t look away from the window. “Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something? Like… something big is supposed to happen, but you don’t know what?”

Wallace nodded. “Yeah. I feel like that all the time.”

Jay sighed. “I just want things to be different. I want to be different.”

Wallace hesitated, then said, “I made a wish last night. I wished I could be myself. I don’t know if it’ll ever come true.”

Jay looked at him, hope flickering in their eyes. “Maybe it will. Maybe we just have to wait.”

They sat in silence, watching the rain.

That afternoon, the shelter was quieter. Most of the guests had drifted off for naps or disappeared into the city. Wallace found himself in the kitchen, washing dishes with Mrs. Kowalski.

“You’re a good boy, Wallace,” she said, scrubbing a stubborn stain. “But you look sad.”

He shrugged. “Just thinking.”

She patted his arm. “Don’t think too much. Just be kind. The rest will follow.”

He smiled, grateful for her simple wisdom.

As he finished the last of the dishes, he noticed something on the counter-a folded note, written on a napkin. He picked it up, recognizing the neat, looping script.

Your heart will be rewarded. Look for the mirror that shows you as you are.

There was no signature, but he knew who had written it.

He found the woman near the door, buttoning her raincoat. “Thank you for the note,” he said softly.

She smiled. “You’re welcome, dear. Remember-kindness is its own reward. But sometimes, the world gives back.”

She pressed something into his hand-a small, polished stone, smooth and warm.

“For luck,” she said, then slipped out into the rain.

Wallace stared at the stone, turning it over in his palm. It was carved with a symbol-a moth, its wings spread wide.

He slipped it into his pocket, feeling its weight.

That evening, Wallace stayed late to help Gail clean up. The rain had stopped, and the city glowed with the wet shine of streetlights.

“Who was that woman?” Gail asked as they stacked chairs.

“I don’t know,” Wallace admitted. “But she said some… interesting things.”

Gail grinned. “Maybe she’s a fairy godmother.”

Wallace laughed. “If only.”

They finished cleaning, then sat together on the front steps, watching the world grow quiet.

“Do you ever wish you could start over?” Wallace asked.

Gail considered. “Sometimes. But I think… I’d rather just be seen for who I am.”

Wallace nodded. “Me too.”

Gail nudged him. “You know, you can talk to me. About anything.”

He hesitated, then whispered, “I wish I could tell my parents. I wish I could just… be myself.”

Gail put her arm around his shoulders. “You will. When you’re ready.”

They sat in silence, the city humming around them.

When Wallace got home, the house was dark. His parents were already in bed. He crept upstairs, the moth stone heavy in his pocket.

He stood in front of his mirror, studying his reflection. He saw the same tired eyes, the same uncertain smile. But for a moment, he imagined something different-a softer face, longer hair, a body that matched the person he felt inside.

He touched the stone, closing his eyes.

“I wish I could be her,” he whispered. “I wish I could be real.”

He slipped into bed, the stone clutched in his hand.

He dreamed of the shelter, of laughter and light. He saw Gail, smiling, reaching out her hand. He saw Jay, standing tall and proud. He saw himself-not Wallace, but someone new. Someone whole.

A voice whispered in his ear, soft and kind.

Your heart will be rewarded.

He woke with the sunrise, hope blooming in his chest.

The next morning, Wallace arrived at the shelter early. The air was crisp, the sky washed clean by the night’s rain. He found Jay sitting on the steps, knees drawn to their chest.

“Hey,” Wallace said, sitting beside them.

Jay glanced over, eyes red. “Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Wallace hesitated, then offered, “I've seen this movie before, I feel. I wish that I could help you find a place where you could belong.”

Jay shook their head. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. Just needed somewhere to sit.”

Once more they sat in silence, once more the city woke around them.

“There's something about you today, something different” Jay said quietly.

Wallace looked away. “Maybe, I’ve got a tiny bit of hope.”

Jay smiled, small and real. “That’s amazing.”

The shelter doors opened, and Gail stepped out, waving. “Come on, you two. Breakfast is waiting.”

They stood, stretching stiff limbs. Jay nudged Wallace like it had become a habit. “Thanks.”

Wallace smiled. “Of course.”

Inside, the shelter was warm and bright. Wallace felt something shift in his chest-a tiny spark of hope, fragile but real.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But for now, he had friends, and kindness, and the promise of something more.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Chapter 5: The Wish

Wallace’s alarm buzzed at 6:00 AM, slicing through the last remnants of a restless dream. For a moment, he lay still, the moth stone warm in his palm. He’d slept with it clutched in his hand, half-hoping the promise of the mysterious guest would seep into his bones overnight. But when he opened his eyes, the same old ceiling greeted him, cracked and water-stained.

His mother’s voice rose from downstairs. “Wallace! Breakfast! Don’t make us late for church.”

He dressed in silence, tugging on the stiff button-down his mother had ironed the night before. The collar chafed his neck, and the pants felt too tight, but he didn’t complain. He’d learned long ago that arguing only made things worse.

At the breakfast table, his father sat with the Bible open, reading glasses perched on his nose. His mother poured coffee, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Eat quickly,” she said, sliding a plate of eggs toward him. “We’re sitting in the front row today. Pastor Mark asked your father to read the scripture.”

Wallace nodded, forcing down a bite. The food tasted like cardboard.

His father looked up, eyes sharp. “Are you ready to serve, son?”

Wallace nodded again, the word sticking in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

His mother eyed him. “You’ve been quiet lately. Is something wrong at the shelter?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Everything’s fine.”

She pursed her lips. “We heard about the incident with that… girl. Jay. Pastor Mark said you were involved.”

Wallace’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “I was just trying to help.”

His father’s voice hardened. “You need to be careful, Wallace. People will talk. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about our family.”

Wallace swallowed, the eggs turning to paste in his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

His mother reached across the table, her hand cool on his. “We love you, Wallace. We just want what’s best for you. Remember that.”

He nodded, but the words felt hollow. He finished his breakfast in silence, the moth stone heavy in his pocket.

Church was a blur of hymns and sermons. Wallace sat in the front row, hands folded, eyes fixed on the cross above the altar. Pastor Mark’s voice thundered through the sanctuary, preaching about sin and redemption, about the dangers of “deviant lifestyles.” Wallace felt the weight of every eye on him, every whispered prayer a judgment.

After the service, his father shook hands with the other men, his mother chatted with the ladies’ circle, and Wallace stood alone by the door, wishing he could disappear.

Gail found him there, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her dress a riot of sunflowers.

“Hey,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “You okay?”

He managed a smile. “Just tired.”

She studied him, her eyes soft. “Want to get out of here? I brought my bike.”

He hesitated, glancing at his parents. They were deep in conversation, not paying attention.

“Come on,” Gail whispered. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

He nodded, relief flooding him.

They slipped out the side door and walked to the park, Gail wheeling her bike beside them. The air was cool and fresh, the grass still wet from last night’s rain.

They found a bench beneath an old oak tree, its branches heavy with leaves. Gail sat cross-legged, her dress pooling around her knees.

“Talk to me,” she said gently.

Wallace stared at his hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Start anywhere.”

He took a shaky breath. “I feel… lost. Like I’m not really here. Like I’m just pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Gail nodded. “I get that. I felt that way before I came out. It’s like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.”

He looked at her, hope flickering in his chest. “How did you do it? How did you tell your parents?”

She smiled, sad and proud. “I just… couldn’t keep lying. I told them I was gay, and that was that. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. I could finally breathe.”

Wallace’s voice was barely a whisper. “I wish I could do that.”

“You can,” she said. “When you’re ready. And when you do, I’ll be right here.”

He nodded, tears stinging his eyes.

They sat in silence, the breeze rustling the leaves above them.

After a while, Gail nudged him. “Let’s go get ice cream. My treat.”

He managed a smile. “Okay.”

They walked to the corner store, bought cones, and sat on the curb, licking melting vanilla and chocolate. For a moment, Wallace felt almost normal, almost happy.

Gail grinned at him, ice cream smudged on her nose. “See? Life’s not so bad.”

He laughed, the sound surprising and bright.

That evening, Wallace returned home to find his parents waiting in the living room.

His father stood, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Wallace’s stomach dropped. “About what?”

His mother’s voice was tight. “Pastor Mark called. He said you’ve been spending too much time with that girl. Gail.”

Wallace’s heart pounded. “She’s just a friend.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a bad influence. We don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

Wallace’s hands clenched. “She’s my friend.”

His mother’s voice was sharp. “You will do as you’re told, Wallace.”

He shook his head, anger rising. “Why? Because she’s different? Because she’s not ashamed of who she is?”

His father’s voice thundered. “Enough! Go to your room. Now.”

Wallace fled upstairs, slamming the door behind him. He collapsed on his bed, the moth stone digging into his palm.

He stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face.

“I wish I could be myself,” he whispered. “I wish I could be real. I wish I could be free.”

He clutched the stone to his chest, the words tumbling out in a desperate prayer.

“Please. Let me be me. Let me be seen. Let me be loved.”

The room seemed to grow quiet, the air thick with possibility.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

He dreamed of the shelter, of laughter and light. He saw Gail, smiling, reaching out her hand. He saw Jay, standing tall and proud. He saw himself-not Wallace, but someone new. Someone whole.

A voice whispered in his ear, soft and kind.

Your heart will be rewarded.

He woke with a start, the morning sun streaming through the window.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The room looked the same, but everything felt different.

He sat up, the moth stone still clutched in his hand.

He stood and walked to the mirror.

He gasped.

The face that stared back at him was not Wallace’s. The jaw was softer, the hair longer, the eyes brighter. The body was different, too-curves where there had been none, a shape that felt right in a way he’d never known.

He touched his cheek, his lips, his hair.

He was… herself.

She was Dora.

Tears streamed down her face, joy and fear and wonder mingling in her chest.

She spun, laughing and crying all at once.

She was real.

She was free.

Dora dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt. The clothes hung differently now, but she didn’t care. She ran downstairs, heart pounding.

Her parents were gone. The house was silent.

She found a note on the kitchen table.

Gone to church. Be home late. Love, Mom.

She stared at the note, her hands trembling.

She grabbed her backpack and ran out the door.

At the shelter, Gail was already there, setting up the breakfast table.

Dora hesitated in the doorway, fear and hope warring in her chest.

Gail looked up and froze, her eyes wide.

“Wallace?” she whispered.

Dora nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s me. I-I don’t know how, but it’s me.”

Gail rushed to her, pulling her into a fierce hug.

“Oh my god,” Gail whispered. “You’re… you.”

Dora laughed, the sound bright and wild. “I’m me.”

They clung to each other, the world spinning around them.

Jay appeared in the doorway, rubbing their eyes. They stared at Dora, confusion and wonder on their face.

“Who…?”

Gail smiled, tears shining in her eyes. “This is Dora. She’s… she’s our friend.”

Jay grinned, understanding dawning. “You did it,” they whispered. “You’re real.”

Dora nodded, joy flooding her chest.

She was real.

She was free.

She was Dora.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Dora and Gail worked side by side, laughter and wonder filling the air. Jay joined them, their smile brighter than Dora had ever seen.

The guests arrived, and Dora moved among them, her heart light. No one questioned her presence. No one called her by her old name. She was just Dora, a new volunteer, a new friend.

At lunch, Mrs. Kowalski pulled her aside.

“You look happy, dear,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

Dora smiled. “I am.”

Mrs. Kowalski patted her hand. “Good. You deserve it.”

Dora hugged her, gratitude swelling in her chest.

That afternoon, Dora found the moth stone in her pocket. She turned it over in her hand, marveling at the way it caught the light.

She thought of the mysterious guest, of her gentle words.

Chapter 6: Becoming Dora

Dora stood in the shelter’s bathroom, clutching the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection as if it belonged to someone else. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making her skin look almost translucent, her eyes impossibly bright. She touched her cheek-soft, smooth, no trace of stubble or shadow. Her hair brushed her shoulders, wavy and untamed. Her body was unfamiliar, yet it felt right, as if she’d finally slipped into skin that fit.

She turned this way and that, marveling at the curve of her hips, the gentle slope of her jaw. Her hands trembled as she traced the lines of her face, her lips, her neck. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once.

But fear crept in, cold and sharp. What if this was a dream? What if she woke up and it was all gone?

A knock sounded on the door. “Dora?” Gail’s voice was gentle, uncertain.

Dora opened the door, her heart pounding. Gail stood in the hallway, eyes wide, her mouth hanging open.

“Oh my god,” Gail whispered. “It’s really you.”

Dora nodded, tears springing to her eyes. “I don’t know how, but… I’m me. I’m really me.”

Gail pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. Dora clung to her, burying her face in Gail’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of lavender and soap.

They stood like that for a long moment, the world narrowing to the warmth of Gail’s arms.

When they finally pulled apart, Gail wiped her eyes. “You look amazing. I mean, you always did, but… wow.”

Dora laughed, the sound bubbling out of her. “I feel amazing. But I’m also terrified.”

Gail squeezed her hand. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They walked back to the kitchen, where Jay was setting out plates. Jay looked up, their eyes widening as they took in Dora’s new appearance.

“Whoa,” Jay breathed. “You… you did it.”

Dora smiled, shy and proud. “I guess I did.”

Jay grinned and pulled her into a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

Dora hugged them back, gratitude swelling in her chest.

The three of them worked side by side, preparing breakfast for the shelter’s guests. Dora moved through the motions, still half-expecting someone to call her by her old name, to ask what she was doing there. But no one did. To everyone else, she was just Dora-a new volunteer, a new friend.

As the morning wore on, Dora grew bolder. She chatted with the guests, refilled coffee cups, and even joined a group of kids for a game of cards. She felt lighter, freer, as if a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying had finally been lifted.

But beneath the joy, anxiety simmered. What would happen when her parents came looking for her? What would Pastor Mark say? Would anyone believe she was who she said she was?

After breakfast, Dora slipped outside for some air. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air crisp and clean after the rain. She sat on the steps, hugging her knees to her chest, watching the world go by.

Gail joined her, sitting close. “How are you holding up?”

Dora shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel… happy. But also scared. What if this isn’t real? What if I wake up tomorrow and it’s all gone?”

Gail reached for her hand. “It’s real. I don’t know how, but it is. And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Dora squeezed her hand, comforted by the warmth of Gail’s touch.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the clouds drift across the sky.

Eventually, Jay joined them, flopping down on the steps. “So, what now?”

Dora shook her head. “I have no idea. I don’t even know how to… be a girl. I mean, I know what I feel, but I don’t know anything about… clothes, or makeup, or… anything.”

Gail grinned. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

Jay laughed. “And I’ll help too. We’ll make you the coolest girl in town.”

Dora smiled, her anxiety easing. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers, but she had friends. She had hope.

The shelter was busier than usual that afternoon. Word had spread about the new volunteer, and people were curious. Dora did her best to blend in, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was watching her.

She caught Mrs. Kowalski’s eye as she passed by with a tray of sandwiches. The old woman smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You look happy, dear.”

Dora blushed. “I am. Thank you.”

Mrs. Kowalski patted her hand. “Good. You deserve it.”

Dora carried the tray to the dining hall, her heart light.

But not everyone was so welcoming.

Pastor Mark arrived just before dinner, his presence sending a ripple of unease through the room. He strode through the shelter, greeting guests with a practiced smile, but his eyes were cold and sharp.

He spotted Dora and frowned. “Who are you?”

Dora swallowed, her hands trembling. “I’m Dora. I’m… new.”

Pastor Mark studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her face. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Dora shook her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I don’t think so.”

He grunted, unconvinced. “Where are you from?”

Dora hesitated. “I… I don’t really have a home right now.”

Pastor Mark’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t usually take on new volunteers without a background check. Who approved you?”

Gail stepped in, her voice steady. “I did. Dora’s with me.”

Pastor Mark’s frown deepened. “We’ll need to talk about this, Gail. I don’t like surprises.”

Gail nodded, unfazed. “Of course, Pastor Mark.”

He stalked off, muttering to himself.

Dora let out a shaky breath. “That was close.”

Gail squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

Dora smiled, grateful for Gail’s confidence.

After dinner, Dora helped clean up, her mind racing. She knew she couldn’t hide forever. Sooner or later, someone would start asking questions.

She found Gail in the kitchen, wiping down the counters.

“What if he finds out?” Dora whispered. “What if he figures out who I am?”

Gail shook her head. “He won’t. And even if he does, we’ll deal with it. You’re not alone anymore.”

Dora nodded, comforted by Gail’s certainty.

They finished cleaning in silence, the tension between them easing.

That night, Dora slept at Gail’s house. Gail’s parents were away for the weekend, and the house felt warm and safe. They stayed up late, watching movies and painting their nails. Gail taught Dora how to braid her hair, how to apply mascara without poking herself in the eye.

Dora laughed, the sound bright and free. For the first time, she felt like she belonged.

As they lay in their sleeping bags, Gail turned to her. “You know, you’re pretty brave.”

Dora shook her head. “I’m scared all the time.”

Gail smiled. “That’s what makes you brave. You keep going, even when you’re scared.”

Dora blushed, looking away. “Thank you. For everything.”

Gail reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. “Anytime.”

They fell asleep like that, hands clasped, hearts full.

The next morning, Dora woke to sunlight streaming through the window. She stretched, savoring the feel of her new body, the way her hair fell across her face.

She dressed in borrowed clothes-jeans and a soft t-shirt-and joined Gail in the kitchen for breakfast.

Gail grinned as she poured cereal. “Ready for your first real day as Dora?”

Dora smiled, nerves fluttering in her stomach. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They walked to the shelter together, the city alive with the sounds of morning.

At the shelter, Jay greeted them with a wave. “Hey, Dora! Ready to take on the world?”

Dora laughed. “Let’s do it.”

They spent the day working side by side, serving meals, cleaning up, and chatting with the guests. Dora felt more confident, more herself with every passing hour.

But as the sun began to set, Pastor Mark called a meeting in his office.

Gail squeezed Dora’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you.”

They entered the office together, Jay trailing behind.

Pastor Mark sat behind his desk, his expression stern. “I’ve been looking into your background, Dora. There’s no record of you anywhere. No school, no address, nothing.”

Dora’s heart pounded. “I… I don’t have a home right now. My family… we’re not in touch.”

Pastor Mark’s eyes narrowed. “That’s very unusual. I don’t like mysteries in my shelter.”

Gail spoke up, her voice steady. “Dora’s with me. She’s a good person. She deserves a chance.”

Pastor Mark studied them for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you. One mistake, and you’re out.”

Dora nodded, relief flooding her chest. “Thank you.”

He waved them out, his gaze lingering on Dora.

Outside the office, Gail hugged Dora. “See? We’ve got this.”

Dora smiled, hope blooming in her chest.

They spent the evening together, laughing and talking, the fear of discovery fading in the warmth of friendship.

As Dora lay in bed that night, she thought of the journey ahead. She knew there would be challenges, that not everyone would accept her. But she also knew she wasn’t alone.

She was Dora. She was real. And for the first time, she was ready to face the world.

Kindness is its own reward. But sometimes, the world gives back.

Dora smiled, hope blooming in her chest.

She was Dora.

She was real.

Chapter 7: The First Test

Dora woke to the sound of birdsong and sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar window of Gail’s guest room. For a moment, she lay still, letting the warmth seep into her bones. She stretched, marveling at the way her body moved-still new, still wondrous, but already beginning to feel like home.

Downstairs, she could hear the clatter of breakfast. The scent of coffee and frying eggs drifted up the stairs, mingling with the distant laughter of Gail and her parents. Dora sat up, nerves fluttering in her stomach. Today would be her first full day as Dora-no more hiding, no more pretending. But the thought filled her with both excitement and dread.

She dressed in borrowed clothes-soft jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a hoodie that smelled faintly of lavender. She brushed her hair, still amazed at the way it fell around her face, and studied herself in the mirror. Her heart thudded. You can do this, she told herself. You are Dora. You belong.

Downstairs, Gail’s mother greeted her with a warm smile. “Good morning, Dora! Did you sleep well?”

Dora nodded, shy but grateful. “Yes, thank you. Your house is really nice.”

Gail’s father looked up from his newspaper, his expression gentle. “We’re glad to have you here. Gail tells us you’re quite the helper at the shelter.”

Dora blushed. “I try.”

Gail grinned, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. “You do more than try. You’re amazing.”

Dora ducked her head, but she couldn’t help smiling. The warmth of Gail’s family was a balm, easing some of the ache left by her own.

After breakfast, Gail’s mother handed Dora a small canvas bag. “A few things you might need-hair ties, a brush, some lip balm. And a notebook, in case you want to write.”

Dora’s breath caught. “Thank you. I… I don’t know what to say.”

Gail’s mother squeezed her hand. “Just say you’ll let us know if you need anything else.”

Dora nodded, tears prickling her eyes. For the first time, she felt the possibility of being part of a family that saw her, not just tolerated her.

At the shelter, the mood was different. Word had spread about the “new girl,” and Dora could feel eyes on her as she walked in with Gail. Some of the regulars smiled and waved, but others whispered behind their hands, their gazes lingering a little too long.

Jay greeted her at the door, their grin wide. “Hey, Dora! Ready for round two?”

Dora laughed, nerves easing. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They set to work, prepping lunch and sorting donations. Dora found herself falling into the rhythm of the shelter, her hands remembering the movements even as her mind raced with new worries.

But it didn’t take long for the first test to come.

As Dora carried a box of canned goods to the pantry, she overheard two volunteers whispering near the door.

“Did you hear about her? She just showed up out of nowhere.”

“I heard she doesn’t have any family. Weird, right?”

“She looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.”

Dora’s cheeks burned. She ducked her head, focusing on the task at hand, but the words clung to her like burrs.

Later, while setting out plates in the dining hall, she caught Pastor Mark watching her from across the room. His gaze was sharp, assessing. He approached, his footsteps measured.

“Dora, is it?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Dora nodded, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You’ve made quite an impression. Gail speaks highly of you.”

Dora swallowed. “I’m just trying to help.”

He nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “We value honesty here. I expect all our volunteers to be upfront about their backgrounds.”

Dora’s heart pounded. “I understand.”

He leaned in, his voice low. “I’ll be watching. We can’t afford surprises.”

Dora nodded again, relief flooding her as he walked away. She tried to shake off the encounter, but his words echoed in her mind.

At lunch, Dora sat with Jay and Gail, picking at her food.

“You okay?” Jay asked, concern in their eyes.

Dora shrugged. “Just… feeling out of place.”

Gail squeezed her hand under the table. “You belong here. Don’t let them get to you.”

Jay nodded. “People are just curious. They’ll get used to you.”

Dora managed a smile, grateful for their support.

After lunch, she helped Mrs. Kowalski in the kitchen. The old woman hummed as she chopped vegetables, her hands steady and sure.

“You’re a good worker, Dora,” she said. “Reminds me of my granddaughter.”

Dora smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Kowalski glanced at her, eyes twinkling. “Don’t let the whispers bother you. People fear what they don’t understand. Give them time.”

Dora nodded, comforted by the woman’s wisdom.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of chores and small victories. Dora helped a young mother find clothes for her children, played cards with a group of teens, and even managed to make a few of the regulars laugh with her awkward jokes.

But as the sun began to set, tension returned. Pastor Mark called a meeting in the main hall, his expression grave.

“We have a responsibility to this community,” he began, his voice carrying. “We must ensure the safety and integrity of our shelter.”

He glanced at Dora, his gaze lingering. “That means knowing who we’re working with. I expect full transparency from everyone.”

Dora’s stomach twisted. She felt every eye in the room on her.

Gail stood, her voice clear. “Dora’s with me. She’s a good person. She deserves to be here.”

Jay nodded, standing beside her. “She helped me when no one else would.”

A few others murmured their agreement, but some volunteers looked away, uncomfortable.

Pastor Mark’s jaw tightened. “We’ll be reviewing all volunteer records. Anyone who can’t provide proper documentation will be asked to leave.”

Dora’s heart pounded. She glanced at Gail, panic rising.

After the meeting, Gail pulled her aside. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

Dora nodded, but fear gnawed at her. What if they found out the truth? What if she lost everything she’d just gained?

That evening, Gail’s parents welcomed Dora home with open arms. They listened as she explained the situation, their faces kind but concerned.

“We’ll support you, Dora,” Gail’s mother said. “Whatever happens.”

Gail’s father nodded. “You’re part of our family now.”

Dora blinked back tears. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Gail hugged her, fierce and protective. “You’ll never have to find out.”

They spent the evening together, watching movies and eating popcorn. For a little while, Dora forgot her fears, lost in the warmth of chosen family.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the doubts returned. She stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on her.

What if they find out? What if I lose everything?

She clutched the moth stone in her hand, seeking comfort in its smooth surface.

You are Dora. You belong.

She repeated the words like a mantra, willing herself to believe.

The next morning, Dora woke early. She dressed quietly, careful not to wake Gail. She slipped outside, the air cool and still.

She walked to the shelter, her footsteps echoing on the empty streets. She needed time to think, to gather her courage.

At the shelter, she found Mrs. Kowalski already in the kitchen, kneading dough for the day’s bread.

“Couldn’t sleep?” the old woman asked, not looking up.

Dora shook her head. “Too much on my mind.”

Mrs. Kowalski smiled. “Join the club.”

They worked in silence for a while, the rhythm of baking soothing Dora’s nerves.

After a while, Mrs. Kowalski spoke. “You know, my granddaughter was scared when she first came out. She thought we’d hate her. But love is stronger than fear.”

Dora nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “I hope so.”

Mrs. Kowalski patted her hand. “You’re stronger than you think, Dora. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Dora smiled, hope blooming in her chest.

When Gail and Jay arrived, they found Dora in the kitchen, flour dusting her hair and clothes.

“Early start?” Gail teased.

Dora grinned. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jay laughed. “You look like a ghost.”

Dora stuck out her tongue, and the three of them dissolved into laughter.

For a moment, everything felt right.

But as the day wore on, the tension returned. Pastor Mark called Dora into his office, his expression unreadable.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Dora sat, her hands trembling in her lap.

Pastor Mark studied her for a long moment. “I’ve been looking into your background, Dora. There’s nothing. No records, no school, no family. Who are you, really?”

Dora swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m Dora. I don’t have a family. Not anymore.”

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “People don’t just appear out of nowhere. What are you hiding?”

Dora shook her head. “Nothing. I just want to help.”

Pastor Mark’s lips thinned. “I don’t trust mysteries. If you want to stay here, you’ll need to prove you belong.”

Dora nodded, fear and determination warring in her chest. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He dismissed her with a wave, his gaze lingering.

Outside the office, Gail was waiting. She pulled Dora into a hug. “Don’t let him get to you. You belong here. We’ll fight for you.”

Dora nodded, hope flickering in her chest.

That night, as she lay in bed, Dora thought about everything she’d gained-and everything she stood to lose. She knew the road ahead would be hard, but she also knew she wasn’t alone.

She was Dora. She was real. And she was ready for whatever came next.

Chapter 8: Girlhood 101

Dora stood in front of Gail’s full-length mirror, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. The morning sun filtered through the curtains, painting the room in gold. She wore a borrowed sundress-Gail’s idea-and the fabric felt strange against her skin: light, soft, and a little too real. She tugged at the hem, uncertain.

Gail, sprawled on her bed with a makeup bag between her knees, grinned. “You look adorable. Seriously, Dora, I’m jealous of your legs.”

Dora blushed, glancing away. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”

Gail patted the space beside her. “Come here. Let’s try some mascara. I promise not to poke your eye out.”

With hesitant steps, Dora sat. Gail unscrewed the mascara tube, her movements practiced. “Look up,” she said gently.

Dora obeyed, feeling the brush tickle her lashes. She tried to keep still, but her nerves buzzed. “How do you do this every day?”

Gail laughed. “You get used to it. Besides, you don’t have to wear makeup if you don’t want to. Girlhood isn’t a checklist.”

Dora nodded, but her anxiety lingered. “What if I mess up? What if people can tell I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Gail’s expression softened. “Everyone’s making it up as they go, Dora. You’re allowed to be new at this.”

They finished with a swipe of lip balm and a little blush. Gail held up a hand mirror. “See? Gorgeous.”

Dora studied her reflection. She didn’t look like herself-or rather, she looked more like herself than ever before. The girl in the mirror was awkward, hopeful, and real.

A knock sounded at the door. Gail’s mother peeked in, her smile warm. “Breakfast is ready, girls.”

Dora’s heart fluttered at the word. She followed Gail downstairs, nerves prickling with every step.

At the table, Gail’s father poured orange juice. “Big plans today?”

Gail grinned. “We’re going shopping. Dora needs some clothes of her own.”

Dora shrank into her seat. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

“Nonsense,” Gail’s mother said. “You’re family now.”

Dora blinked back tears. She’d never been called that before.

The thrift store was a riot of color and noise. Dora trailed after Gail, overwhelmed by racks of dresses, jeans, and tops in every style. Gail plucked items from hangers, holding them up for inspection.

“How about this?” she asked, brandishing a floral skirt.

Dora shook her head, laughing. “Too frilly.”

Gail grinned, tossing it back. “We’ll find your style.”

They gathered a pile of options and headed for the dressing rooms. Dora hesitated at the entrance, anxiety tightening her chest.

Gail nudged her. “You okay?”

Dora nodded, but her voice was small. “What if someone says something?”

Gail’s eyes flashed. “If anyone gives you trouble, I’ll handle it.”

Inside the cramped stall, Dora tried on jeans and t-shirts, skirts and sweaters. Some felt right, others didn’t. She found herself drawn to soft fabrics, simple patterns, clothes that felt like comfort.

She stepped out in a pair of overalls and a striped tee. Gail gave her a thumbs-up. “Adorable. That’s so you.”

Dora smiled, a real one this time.

As they waited in line to pay, a woman behind them eyed Dora. “Isn’t it nice your friend is helping you pick out clothes?” she said, her tone syrupy. “It’s so important for girls to learn how to dress properly.”

Dora stiffened, unsure how to respond. Gail squeezed her hand. “She’s doing just fine on her own, thanks.”

The woman sniffed and turned away. Dora’s cheeks burned, but Gail just winked. “People are weird. Don’t let them get to you.”

After shopping, they stopped for ice cream. Dora licked her cone, watching families stroll by in the afternoon sun.

“Do you ever feel like everyone’s staring?” she asked.

Gail shrugged. “Sometimes. But most people are too busy with their own stuff. And if they do stare, that’s their problem, not yours.”

Dora nodded, savoring the sweetness on her tongue.

They wandered through the park, talking about everything and nothing. Gail told stories about her childhood, her first crush, the time she dyed her hair blue and her mother nearly fainted.

Dora listened, laughing and asking questions. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease, replaced by a quiet joy.

They found a bench beneath a willow tree and sat, watching the ducks paddle across the pond.

Gail nudged her. “You’re doing great, you know.”

Dora smiled, a little shy. “Thanks. I still feel lost sometimes.”

Gail squeezed her hand. “That’s normal. I felt the same way when I first came out. It gets easier.”

Dora looked at her, hope flickering in her chest. “I want to be like you. Confident. Sure of myself.”

Gail laughed. “Fake it ‘til you make it. That’s my secret.”

Dora giggled, the sound light and free.

Back at the shelter, Dora helped serve dinner. She moved through the dining hall, her new clothes giving her a boost of confidence. Some of the regulars smiled and greeted her by name. Others just nodded, but no one questioned her presence.

Mrs. Kowalski waved her over. “You look lovely, dear.”

Dora blushed. “Thank you.”

The old woman patted her hand. “You remind me of my granddaughter. She was brave, too.”

Dora smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

As she cleared plates, she overheard two volunteers talking.

“She seems nice, but where did she come from?”

“I heard she’s staying with Gail’s family. Must be tough, not having anyone.”

Dora’s heart squeezed. She tried to focus on her work, but the words lingered.

After dinner, Jay found her in the kitchen. “You okay?”

Dora nodded, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

Jay studied her, then pulled her into a hug. “You’re not alone, Dora. Not ever.”

Dora hugged them back, grateful for the comfort.

That night, Gail’s parents invited Dora to join them for a movie. They watched an old comedy, laughter filling the living room.

Afterward, Gail’s mother made popcorn and hot chocolate. They talked about school, favorite books, and silly childhood memories.

Dora felt herself relax, the walls she’d built around her heart beginning to crumble.

As she got ready for bed, Gail knocked on her door.

“Can I come in?”

Dora nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Gail joined her, legs crossed. “Today was a big day. How are you really?”

Dora hesitated, then whispered, “I’m scared. What if I mess up? What if I’m not… enough?”

Gail took her hand. “You are enough. You always have been. And if you ever forget, I’ll remind you.”

Dora blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

Gail smiled. “Anytime.”

They sat in silence, the bond between them growing stronger.

As Dora drifted off to sleep, she thought about everything she’d learned. Girlhood wasn’t a checklist or a costume. It was laughter with friends, kindness from strangers, and the courage to keep going even when she felt lost.

She hugged her pillow, hope blooming in her chest.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for tonight, she was content.

She was Dora. She was real. And she was enough.

Chapter 9: The Rumor Mill

Dora had always thought that being invisible was the worst fate. In her old life, she’d longed to be seen, to have someone look at her and recognize the girl she knew herself to be. Now, as she moved through her first week as Dora, she realized that being seen-truly seen-came with its own kind of ache.

It started with whispers. At first, Dora thought she was imagining it: the way conversations seemed to hush when she entered a room, the sidelong glances from volunteers who’d known Wallace and now eyed Dora with a mix of confusion and suspicion. Even some of the guests, who’d always accepted help without question, now watched her with wary eyes.

At lunch, she caught two volunteers whispering by the coffee machine.

“Gail’s friend, right? The new girl?”

“Yeah, but where did she come from? She just… appeared.”

“I heard she’s staying with Gail’s family. No parents, no school records, nothing.”

“Do you think she’s in trouble?”

Dora pretended not to hear, focusing on slicing bread. But the words clung to her, sharp and sticky. She felt herself shrinking, shoulders curling in, wishing she could disappear all over again.

Gail noticed. She always did.

“Hey,” she said, nudging Dora’s elbow as they worked side by side in the kitchen. “Don’t let them get to you. People gossip about anything they don’t understand.”

Dora managed a smile. “I know. It’s just… hard. I feel like I’m under a microscope.”

Gail squeezed her hand. “You’re not alone. And you’re not doing anything wrong.”

But the rumors followed Dora everywhere. At the thrift store, the cashier paused, scanning her up and down before ringing up her purchases. At the library, a group of teens snickered as she passed, one of them muttering, “Is that a boy or a girl?” loud enough for her to hear.

Each time, Dora felt the sting-a thousand tiny cuts, not enough to bleed but enough to bruise. She tried to brush it off, to focus on the good: the way Jay always greeted her with a smile, the warmth of Gail’s family, the satisfaction of helping at the shelter. But the doubts crept in, whispering that maybe she didn’t belong after all.

One afternoon, Dora and Gail took a walk through the park. The air was warm, the trees just beginning to bud. They sat on a bench, watching children play on the swings.

“Do you ever wish you’d had a real girlhood?” Dora asked quietly. “Like, sleepovers and braiding hair and all that?”

Gail considered. “Sometimes. But I think girlhood is what you make it. You’re living it now, in your own way.”

Dora nodded, but a lump formed in her throat. “I feel like I’m always behind. Like everyone else got a head start and I’m just… faking it.”

Gail bumped her shoulder. “You’re not faking anything. You’re learning. That’s what girlhood is-figuring things out, making mistakes, trying again.”

Dora smiled, comforted. But the ache lingered-a sense of liminality, of being caught between worlds, never quite at home in either.

Back at the shelter, the tension simmered. Pastor Mark had started assigning Dora to less visible tasks-stocking shelves, cleaning storerooms, anything that kept her out of the main hall. He insisted it was just “rotation,” but Dora knew better.

One day, as she swept the hallway, she overheard Pastor Mark talking to another volunteer.

“I just don’t think it’s appropriate, letting someone with no background work here. We have to protect our community.”

The volunteer murmured agreement. Dora’s hands tightened on the broom.

She finished her chores and found Jay in the rec room, hunched over a puzzle.

“Rough day?” Jay asked, glancing up.

Dora nodded. “People are talking. Pastor Mark keeps moving me around. I feel like I’m being punished for existing.”

Jay snorted. “Welcome to the club. People always find something to judge.”

Dora sat beside them, grateful for the solidarity. “How do you deal with it?”

Jay shrugged. “Some days I ignore it. Some days I fight back. Most days, I just try to remember who I am.”

Dora nodded, letting Jay’s words settle in her chest.

That evening, Gail’s parents invited Dora to dinner at their favorite diner. The place was cozy, all red vinyl booths and checkered floors. Dora wore her new jeans and a soft sweater, hoping to blend in.

The waitress smiled as she took their order, but when she brought the drinks, she hesitated, looking from Dora to Gail’s parents.

“Is this your daughter?” she asked, voice friendly but probing.

Gail’s mother smiled. “Yes, this is Dora. She’s staying with us.”

The waitress’s eyes lingered on Dora for a moment too long, but she just nodded and moved on.

After she left, Dora let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Does it ever get easier?” she whispered.

Gail’s father squeezed her hand. “People are curious. Sometimes they’re kind, sometimes not. But you have us. You’re family now.”

Dora blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

Later that week, Dora and Gail worked the evening shift at the shelter. The place was busy, the air thick with the smell of stew and the chatter of guests.

As Dora carried a tray of dishes to the kitchen, a group of teens blocked her path.

“Hey,” one of them called. “You’re that new girl, right? The one who just showed up?”

Dora nodded, nerves prickling.

The teen smirked. “You talk funny. Where you from?”

Dora hesitated. “Around.”

Another teen chimed in. “You got a boyfriend?”

Dora shook her head, cheeks burning.

The first teen leaned closer. “You sure you’re even a girl?”

Dora’s hands trembled. She forced herself to stand tall. “I’m sure.”

The teens laughed, but Dora didn’t back down. She pushed past them, head high, heart pounding.

In the kitchen, Gail found her wiping tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Dora whispered. “I just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

Gail hugged her tight. “You can. And you’re not alone. Those kids don’t know anything about you.”

Dora nodded, drawing strength from Gail’s embrace.

That night, Dora lay awake in Gail’s guest room, staring at the ceiling. The day’s slights replayed in her mind-a thousand tiny wounds, each one a reminder that the world wasn’t always kind to girls like her.

But she also remembered the good: Jay’s quiet support, Gail’s unwavering friendship, the warmth of a family who chose her.

She thought of the liminality she’d read about in a borrowed book-a space between, neither here nor there, but full of possibility. Maybe that was what girlhood was for her: not a lost childhood, but a new beginning, a chance to shape her own story.

She sat up, grabbing the notebook Gail’s mother had given her. By the soft glow of her bedside lamp, she began to write:

Today, I was seen. Not always kindly, but truly. I am Dora. I am learning. I am enough.

She closed the notebook, hope blooming in her chest.

The next day, Dora returned to the shelter determined to claim her place. She greeted the guests with a smile, helped Mrs. Kowalski in the kitchen, and even joined a group of kids for a game of cards.

When Pastor Mark assigned her to the storeroom again, Dora stood her ground.

“I’d like to work in the dining hall today,” she said, voice steady.

Pastor Mark frowned. “We need you in the back.”

Dora met his gaze. “I want to help where I’m needed most. And I think that’s with the guests.”

He hesitated, then relented. “Fine. But I’ll be watching.”

Dora nodded, pride swelling in her chest.

At lunch, Gail pulled her aside. “I heard what you said to Pastor Mark. That was brave.”

Dora smiled. “I’m tired of hiding. I want to be part of this place. Really part of it.”

Gail hugged her. “You already are.”

Jay joined them, grinning. “You showed him. About time someone did.”

Dora laughed, the sound light and free.

That afternoon, as Dora cleared tables, a little girl tugged on her sleeve.

“Are you a princess?” the girl asked, eyes wide.

Dora knelt, smiling. “No, but I can pretend.”

The girl giggled and hugged her. Dora’s heart soared.

For the first time, she felt like she belonged-not just as a helper, but as herself.

That night, Dora wrote in her notebook again:

Today, I stood up for myself. Today, I was brave. Maybe that’s what girlhood is-learning to be brave, even when it’s hard.

She closed the notebook, a smile on her lips.

She was Dora. She was real. And she was enough.

Chapter 10: First Outing

Dora stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the front of her new floral blouse. Her hands trembled as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The outfit was simple-jeans, sneakers, and the blouse Gail had helped her pick out at the thrift store-but to Dora, it felt like armor and a target all at once.

Gail appeared in the doorway, holding up a pair of sunglasses. “Ready for your first real day out?” she asked, her voice gentle but excited.

Dora took a deep breath and nodded. “I think so.”

Gail grinned. “You look amazing. Seriously, Dora, you’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

Dora smiled, nerves fluttering in her stomach. “Let’s just hope I don’t knock myself over first.”

They laughed, and Gail squeezed Dora’s hand. “We’ll go slow. If you need to leave, just say the word.”

The morning air was crisp as they set out, the city alive with the sounds of summer-children’s laughter, distant music, the hum of traffic. Dora clung to Gail’s side, her senses on high alert. Every glance from a stranger felt magnified, every whisper a possible judgment.

Their first stop was a café on Main Street. Gail ordered iced coffees, chatting easily with the barista. Dora hung back, trying to steady her breathing. When the barista turned to her, smiling politely, Dora managed to order her drink without stumbling over her words.

They found a table by the window. Gail sipped her coffee, watching Dora with a reassuring smile. “You did great.”

Dora exhaled, surprised by how much tension she’d been holding. “I was sure she could tell.”

“Tell what?” Gail asked.

“That I’m… new at this. That I’m not really-” Dora stopped herself, biting her lip.

Gail reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “You’re really you. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

Dora nodded, but the anxiety lingered. She watched people pass by outside, wondering what they saw when they looked at her.

After coffee, they browsed a bookstore. Dora lost herself in the aisles, running her fingers over the spines of novels and poetry collections. For a moment, she forgot her nerves, absorbed in the quiet magic of stories.

But when they reached the checkout, the cashier-a teenage boy with a bored expression-glanced at Dora’s books, then at her, then at Gail.

“Are these for you?” he asked, his tone casual but edged with something Dora couldn’t name.

Dora nodded. “Yeah. I love poetry.”

The boy smirked. “Didn’t peg you for the poetry type.”

Gail’s eyes narrowed. “She’s got great taste.”

The boy shrugged, ringing up the books. “Guess everyone’s got their thing.”

Dora felt her cheeks burn. The comment wasn’t overtly cruel, but it stung-a subtle reminder that she was being scrutinized, that her interests were being weighed against someone else’s expectations.

Outside, Gail looped her arm through Dora’s. “Ignore him. People say stupid things.”

Dora nodded, but the words lingered. She wondered if every outing would be like this-a mix of small joys and tiny wounds.

They walked to the park, finding a bench in the shade. Dora watched families play on the grass, couples strolling hand in hand. She felt both visible and invisible, seen and unseen.

A group of teenage girls passed by, giggling. One glanced at Dora, did a double take, and whispered something to her friends. They all looked back, their expressions a mix of curiosity and something sharper.

Dora’s stomach twisted. She looked down, wishing she could disappear.

Gail noticed. “Hey. Want to go somewhere quieter?”

Dora shook her head. “No. I want to stay. I don’t want to run away every time someone looks at me funny.”

Gail smiled, pride in her eyes. “That’s brave.”

Dora shrugged. “I’m tired of being scared.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the world go by.

Later, they stopped at a clothing store. Dora browsed the racks, her fingers lingering on soft fabrics and bright colors. She picked out a sundress, holding it up to her body.

A saleswoman approached, her smile tight. “Can I help you find something?”

Dora shook her head. “Just looking, thanks.”

The woman’s gaze flicked over Dora, then to Gail. “We have a fitting room in the back. For women.”

Dora’s cheeks burned. “That’s… great. Thank you.”

The woman hovered, watching as Dora made her way to the fitting room. Inside, Dora changed into the dress, studying her reflection. She looked awkward, uncertain, but also-maybe-beautiful.

She stepped out to show Gail, who grinned. “You look amazing.”

The saleswoman lingered nearby, arms crossed. Dora felt her scrutiny like a weight.

After they paid, Gail leaned in. “You handled that really well. Some people just can’t mind their own business.”

Dora managed a smile. “I’m getting used to it.”

As they walked home, Dora’s confidence grew. She’d survived her first outing-awkward moments and all. She’d faced stares and whispers, but she was still standing.

At a crosswalk, a man glanced at Dora, then at Gail. “You girls sisters?”

Gail grinned. “Nope, just best friends.”

The man nodded, then looked at Dora. “You’re lucky to have someone looking out for you.”

Dora smiled. “I know.”

Back at Gail’s house, they collapsed on the couch, exhausted but happy.

“You did it,” Gail said. “Your first real day out.”

Dora laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”

Gail squeezed her hand. “I’m proud of you.”

Dora felt a surge of gratitude. “Thank you. For everything.”

Gail smiled. “Anytime.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling around them.

That evening, Dora wrote in her notebook:

Today, I was seen. Sometimes it hurt, but sometimes it felt good. I’m learning to be brave, even when it’s hard. I’m learning to be me.

She closed the notebook, hope blooming in her chest.

The next day at the shelter, Dora’s new confidence showed. She greeted guests with a smile, helped Mrs. Kowalski in the kitchen, and even joined a group of kids for a game of cards.

But not everyone was kind.

As Dora cleared plates, a volunteer named Mrs. Turner approached. “You’re Gail’s friend, right?”

Dora nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Turner’s smile was brittle. “It’s nice that Gail’s family is helping you. Not everyone would be so… open-minded.”

Dora forced a smile. “I’m grateful for them.”

Mrs. Turner leaned in, her voice low. “Just be careful. Not everyone here is as understanding.”

Dora nodded, her heart sinking. She knew what Mrs. Turner meant.

Later, in the hallway, two volunteers passed by, their conversation just loud enough for Dora to hear.

“Did you see the new girl? She’s… different.”

“I heard she used to be someone else.”

Dora kept walking, her head high. She refused to let their words break her.

At lunch, Jay found her in the kitchen. “Rough day?”

Dora nodded. “People talk.”

Jay shrugged. “Let them. You’re still you.”

Dora smiled, comforted by Jay’s support.

As she got ready for bed, Gail knocked on her door.

“Can I come in?”

Dora nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Gail joined her, legs crossed. “Today was another really big day. How are you?”

Dora hesitated, then whispered, “I’m scared. What if I mess up? What if I’m not… enough?”

Gail took her hand. “I've heard this before. Listen carefully this time. You are enough. You always have been. And if you ever forget, I’ll remind you.”

Dora blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

Gail smiled. “Anytime.”

They sat in relaxed silence, the bond between them growing even stronger.

As Dora drifted off to sleep, she thought about everything she’d learned.

She was Dora.

She was real.

And she was enough.

Chapter 11: Shelter Tensions

The shelter’s community garden had become Dora’s sanctuary-a patch of earth where sunflowers stretched toward the sky and tomato vines curled around wooden stakes. She knelt in the soil, gloves caked with mud, carefully transplanting seedlings donated by a local nursery. The project had been her idea: a way to provide fresh produce for the kitchen and give guests a sense of purpose. But as she worked, she felt Pastor Mark’s gaze like a shadow across her shoulders.

“Need help?” Jay appeared at the garden’s edge, their green beanie speckled with paint from the mural they’d been working on in the rec room.

Dora smiled, brushing dirt from her knees. “Could use another set of hands. These zucchini won’t plant themselves.”

They worked in companionable silence for a while, Jay’s steady presence calming the unease that had dogged Dora all week. Since Pastor Mark had begun limiting her duties-reassigning her to backroom inventory checks and supply closets-she’d felt increasingly invisible. But here, with her hands in the soil and Jay’s quiet solidarity, she could almost pretend nothing had changed.

“He’s scared of you,” Jay said suddenly, tearing open a seed packet.

Dora’s trowel stilled. “Who?”

“Pastor Dickhead.” Jay snorted, scattering carrot seeds into neat rows. “You’re everything he hates-someone who changes and doesn’t apologize for it.”

Before Dora could respond, Gail’s voice cut through the humid air. “Dora! Pastor Mark wants to see you in his office.”

The office fan whirred uselessly, stirring papers but not the stifling tension. Pastor Mark sat behind his desk, a spreadsheet open on his laptop. He didn’t look up as Dora entered.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“The garden,” he said finally, steepling his fingers. “It’s become a distraction.”

Dora blinked. “The guests love it. Mrs. Kowalski said the tomatoes-”

“Are attracting pests.” Pastor Mark closed his laptop with a snap. “Raccoons, wasps. It’s a liability.”

“We can put up fencing! Or maybe ask volunteers to-”

“The board agrees it’s best to focus on our core mission.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ll dismantle it by Friday.”

Dora’s gloves crumpled in her fists. “That’s not fair. The guests helped build this. It’s theirs.”

Pastor Mark stood, his chair screeching against the floor. “This isn’t a democracy, Miss… Dora. My job is to protect this institution.”

The unspoken from people like you hung between them.

Dora found Gail in the kitchen, viciously scrubbing soup pots. “He’s killing the garden,” Dora whispered, voice cracking.

Gail slammed a lid onto the counter. “Because it’s working. Because when people see you out there, they see you.”

“Then what do I do?”

“We fight.” Gail’s eyes blazed. “We make it so fucking obvious how much good you’re doing that he can’t ignore it.”

The next morning, Dora arrived early, determination burning through her exhaustion. She taped handmade signs to the garden fence-Fresh Veggies Coming Soon!-and left baskets of seed packets by the shelter entrance. When Mrs. Kowalski brought her a mug of tea, Dora noticed the older woman’s hands trembling.

“You remind me of my granddaughter,” Mrs. Kowalski said suddenly, nodding to the polaroid pinned to the bulletin board-a girl with rainbow braces grinning beside a prizewinning science fair project. “She stood up to her principal when they tried to cancel the GSA club. Sometimes…” The woman’s voice faltered. “Sometimes the world tries to shrink what it doesn’t understand.”

Dora squeezed her hand. “What did she do?”

Mrs. Kowalski’s smile was bittersweet. “She grew her club anyway. In secret, at first. Then louder, until they had to listen.”

By week’s end, the garden thrived in quiet rebellion. Guests weeded during smoke breaks, teenagers watered seedlings between homework sessions, and Jay taught a group of kids to identify edible weeds. But Pastor Mark’s retaliation was swift.

On Thursday, Dora arrived to find the garden gate padlocked. A handwritten notice flapped in the breeze: Closed for Maintenance.

“Maintenance my ass,” Jay muttered, jiggling the lock.

Dora’s vision blurred. All that work-the careful tending, the hopeful sprouts-reduced to a chain and bureaucratic malice. She turned, ready to storm into Pastor Mark’s office, but Gail caught her arm.

“Not yet,” Gail murmured. “Wait for the board meeting.”

That afternoon, Dora sorted canned goods in the storage room, the clatter of beans and corn a monotonous counterpoint to her racing thoughts. The door creaked open.

“Hey.” Jay leaned against the shelves, holding two stolen popsicles. “Break time.”

They sat on the concrete floor, backs against the cool metal. Jay peeled their popsicle wrapper slowly. “When I first got here, I thought kindness was weakness. Like, why bother if the world just shits on you anyway?”

Dora nibbled her grape ice, waiting.

“Then you showed up.” Jay gestured with their popsicle stick. “You didn’t just give a damn-you kept giving a damn, even when it cost you. Made me think… maybe we’re not just surviving here. Maybe we’re building something.”

Dora’s throat tightened. “What if it’s not enough?”

Jay shrugged. “My abuela used to say, ‘You don’t water a garden because you’re sure it’ll grow. You water it because it deserves the chance.’”

The board meeting convened in the shelter’s stuffy conference room. Dora sat between Gail and Mrs. Kowalski, her notecards damp with sweat. Pastor Mark droned through budget reports, his gaze skipping over her like she was furniture.

When he mentioned “reallocating garden funds to security upgrades,” Dora stood.

“The garden isn’t a line item,” she said, voice shaking. “It’s… it’s hope. For people who’ve been told they don’t get to grow things anymore.”

Mrs. Kowalski raised her hand. “My arthritis acts up in the cold. But pulling weeds with Dora? Makes me feel useful again.”

One by one, guests and volunteers spoke up-a teen mom describing how her toddler learned colors from flower petals, an elderly vet who’d started composting his cigarette butts, Jay’s quiet “It’s the first place I felt safe.”

Pastor Mark’s jaw worked silently. When the vote came, the board approved the garden’s expansion-with the caveat that Dora submit weekly maintenance reports.

Afterward, Gail pulled Dora into a broom closet, laughing. “You did it! You fucking-”

Dora kissed her on the cheek.

“Was that… okay?”

Gail’s grin lit the dim space. “More than okay. But maybe next time, someplace without a mop handle jabbing my-”

The door flew open. Pastor Mark stood silhouetted in the light, his expression thunderous.

“My office. Now.”

Alone in the hall, Dora was still brave-and knew no amount of locked gates could contain what was growing.

Chapter 12: Family Dinner

Dora’s hands shook as she set the table in Gail’s kitchen, the plates clinking against the wood. She’d spent the afternoon at the shelter, sorting donations and dodging Pastor Mark’s suspicious glances, but now she was back in the warm, bustling house that had become her only refuge. The air smelled of garlic and rosemary, and Gail’s mom hummed as she stirred a pot of sauce on the stove.

Gail came in, carrying a basket of bread. “You’re overthinking again,” she teased, bumping Dora’s hip with her own.

Dora managed a nervous smile. “I just… want to do everything right.”

Gail grinned, setting the bread down. “You already are. My parents love having you here.”

Dora nodded, but her thoughts spun. She’d never had a family dinner that wasn’t tense, never sat at a table where she felt safe being herself. She glanced at the mirror in the hallway, half-expecting to see Wallace staring back, but all she saw was a girl with anxious eyes and a heart full of hope.

Gail’s dad entered, wiping his hands on a towel. “Smells amazing, hon,” he said to Gail’s mom, then turned to Dora. “You hungry?”

Dora nodded, her stomach fluttering. “Starving.”

They gathered around the table, passing dishes and laughing at Gail’s stories from school. Dora listened, soaking in the warmth and ease. When Gail’s mom asked about her day, Dora found herself opening up about the shelter, about sorting clothes and helping Mrs. Kowalski with the bread dough.

Gail’s dad smiled. “You’re a hard worker. The shelter’s lucky to have you.”

Dora blushed, unused to praise. “Thank you.”

As the meal went on, the conversation turned to summer plans. Gail’s parents talked about a possible road trip, and Gail suggested they all volunteer together at the shelter for a special event. Dora’s heart leapt at the idea, but then a shadow crossed her mind.

“What if… what if Pastor Mark finds out I don’t have any paperwork?” Dora asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gail’s mom reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “We’ll handle it. You’re with us now.”

Gail’s dad nodded. “If anyone gives you trouble, they’ll have to answer to us.”

Dora blinked back tears. She’d never had anyone stand up for her before. “Thank you,” she whispered.

After dinner, Gail’s mom made tea and brought out a box of old family photos. They laughed over pictures of Gail as a toddler, covered in chocolate, and Dora felt a pang for the childhood she’d never had. When Gail’s parents left to watch TV, Gail stayed behind, sitting with Dora at the table.

“You okay?” Gail asked, her voice gentle.

Dora nodded, but tears slipped down her cheeks. “I just… I never thought I’d have this. A family. People who care.”

Gail hugged her, holding her tight. “You deserve it. You always did.”

Dora clung to her, letting herself cry. When she finally pulled away, she wiped her eyes and managed a shaky smile. “Sorry. I’m a mess.”

Gail grinned. “You’re my mess.”

They laughed, and for a moment, the world felt perfect.

Later, in Gail’s room, Dora sat cross-legged on the bed, turning the notebook Gail’s mom had given her over in her hands. She opened to a blank page and began to write.

Tonight, I ate dinner with a family who loves me. I laughed and told stories and felt safe. Maybe I don’t have a past, but I have a present. I have people who care. Maybe that’s enough.

She closed the notebook, feeling lighter.

Gail flopped onto the bed beside her. “Want to paint nails?”

Dora grinned. “Sure.”

They picked out colors and took turns painting each other’s nails, giggling at the smudges and mistakes. Gail told stories about her first crush, and Dora shared memories of sneaking out to the park at night, just to feel the cool grass under her feet.

When they finished, Dora admired her hands. “I never thought I’d get to do this. Just… be a girl.”

Gail smiled, her eyes shining. “You are a girl. And you’re killing the look, by the way.”

Dora laughed, feeling joy bubble up inside her.

The next morning, Dora woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Gail singing in the shower. She dressed quickly and joined Gail’s parents in the kitchen, helping set the table and pour juice.

Gail’s mom smiled. “You’re a natural.”

Dora blushed. “I just like helping.”

After breakfast, Gail’s dad handed Dora a folder. “We talked to a friend who’s a lawyer. There are ways to get you some paperwork, at least enough to keep Pastor Mark off your back for now.”

Dora’s breath caught. “Really?”

He nodded. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. We’ll figure out the rest together.”

Dora hugged him, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He patted her back. “You’re part of the family now. We take care of our own.”

At the shelter that afternoon, Dora felt a new sense of confidence. She worked in the dining hall, greeting guests and serving food. Some of the regulars smiled and thanked her by name. Even Mrs. Turner, who’d once eyed her with suspicion, nodded in approval.

Jay found her during a break, grinning. “You look happy.”

Dora smiled. “I am. Gail’s family… they’re helping me. I think things might actually work out.”

Jay squeezed her shoulder. “You deserve it.”

Dora hugged them, feeling hope bloom in her chest.

Later, as she helped Mrs. Kowalski with the bread, the old woman handed her a warm roll. “You’re doing good, Dora. Keep your chin up.”

Dora smiled, savoring the praise.

But not everything was easy. Pastor Mark called her into his office near the end of the shift.

He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. “I hear you’re staying with Gail’s family.”

Dora nodded, heart pounding. “Yes, sir.”

He studied her, his gaze sharp. “They’re good people. But I need to know I can trust you.”

Dora met his eyes, steady. “I just want to help. I want to be part of this place.”

He was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll see. For now, you can stay. But I’ll be watching.”

Dora left the office, relief and anxiety warring in her chest.

That night, back at Gail’s house, Dora told Gail everything. Gail listened, then hugged her tight.

“He’ll come around,” Gail said. “And if he doesn’t, we’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Dora nodded, hope flickering in her chest.

They spent the evening watching movies and painting their nails, laughter echoing through the house.

Before bed, Dora wrote in her notebook.

Today, I faced my fears. I asked for help. I found family. Maybe I don’t have a past, but I have a future. And I’m not alone.

She closed the notebook, smiling.

She was Dora. She was real. And she was enough.

Chapter 13: The Incident

The morning sun streamed through the shelter's windows, creating golden rectangles on the worn linoleum floor. Dora arranged a stack of donated blankets on a shelf, humming softly to herself. Three weeks had passed since her transformation, and each day brought small victories-learning to braid her hair without tangling her fingers, finding the confidence to speak up during volunteer meetings, memorizing the shelter regulars' coffee preferences. Today, she wore her favorite thrift-store find: a soft blue button-up with tiny embroidered daisies along the collar that Gail swore brought out the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"These go to the family room?" she asked Mrs. Kowalski, who was sorting through children's books nearby.

The older woman nodded, her fingers tracing the spine of a well-loved copy of Where the Wild Things Are. "Yes, dear. And would you mind taking these books too? The little ones have been asking for new stories."

Dora balanced the books atop the blankets. "No problem. I could read to them later, if you think they'd like that."

Mrs. Kowalski's eyes crinkled with her smile. "They'd love it. You have a gift for voices."

Dora blushed, pleased by the compliment. These small moments of normalcy felt precious-being seen not as a curiosity or a mystery, but simply as Dora, a girl who was good with children and had a knack for storytelling.

She made her way down the hallway, nodding to Jay who was mopping near the entrance. Their green hair was freshly dyed, vibrant against the shelter's beige walls.

"Looking good," Dora said, gesturing to their hair with her chin since her hands were full.

Jay grinned. "Thanks. Gail helped me touch it up. Careful, floor's slippery."

Dora navigated around the wet spots, her sneakers squeaking slightly. The family room was empty-too early for the after-school crowd-but she arranged the blankets neatly on the shelf and placed the books on the reading table, turning their colorful covers outward to entice young readers.

As she stood back to admire her work, voices drifted in from the main hall. One she recognized immediately as Pastor Mark's-formal and tight, the way it always sounded when he was trying to impress someone. The other was unfamiliar-deep, confident, with the practiced articulation of someone used to being listened to.

"-finest facility in the area," Pastor Mark was saying. "We serve over three hundred meals a week and provide emergency beds for up to forty individuals."

"Impressive," the other voice replied. "And you've expanded the children's program?"

"Yes, thanks in large part to your generous donation. Would you like to see the family room? We've just renovated it."

Dora straightened, smoothing her shirt. She recognized the situation immediately-a donor tour. Pastor Mark conducted them regularly, showing off the shelter's services to the wealthy community members whose checks kept the lights on. Usually, she tried to make herself scarce during these tours. Pastor Mark preferred showcasing the "established" volunteers-those with lengthy resumes and respectable backgrounds, not mysterious girls with no past.

But there was no time to slip out. Pastor Mark appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a tall man in an expensive-looking suit. The man's silver hair was perfectly styled, his shoes polished to a shine that seemed out of place on the shelter's scuffed floors.

"This is our family room," Pastor Mark explained. "We provide a safe space for children to do homework, read, and play while their parents access services." He noticed Dora and his smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Ah, Dora. Just finishing up?"

The question was clear: Please leave.

"Yes, sir," she said, gathering the empty box that had held the blankets. "Just delivering some new books and blankets."

The donor stepped forward, extending his hand. "Charles Westfield. I don't believe we've met."

Dora shifted the box to her hip and shook his hand. "Dora. I'm relatively new."

"Dora volunteers primarily in the kitchen," Pastor Mark interjected smoothly. "Mrs. Kowalski has taken her under her wing."

Mr. Westfield's gaze lingered on Dora's face, his brow furrowing slightly. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

Dora's heart stuttered. "I don't think so, sir."

"Hmm." His eyes narrowed. "You remind me of someone. What did you say your last name was?"

"She's staying with the Mitchell family," Pastor Mark cut in before Dora could answer. "Their daughter Gail has been a dedicated volunteer for years."

Mr. Westfield's expression changed, a flash of recognition followed by something harder. "The Mitchells? Robert and Susan?"

Dora nodded, uncertain where this was going. "Yes, they've been very kind to me."

"I see." Mr. Westfield's tone cooled several degrees. "I know the Mitchells from the Chamber of Commerce. They've become quite... progressive in recent years."

The way he said "progressive"-like it was a disease-made Dora's stomach clench.

"Would you like to see our new computer lab?" Pastor Mark asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation away. "We've upgraded all the systems thanks to your technology grant."

But Mr. Westfield wasn't finished. He studied Dora with the clinical interest of someone examining a specimen under glass. "How exactly did you come to stay with the Mitchells? Are you related?"

"No, sir. They-they took me in when I needed help."

"Very charitable of them," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "And what brought you to our little town? Family troubles?"

Each question felt like a trap. Dora clutched the box tighter. "Something like that."

"Mr. Westfield," Pastor Mark began, "perhaps we should-"

"I've heard things," Mr. Westfield continued, ignoring him. "About a girl who appeared out of nowhere. No records, no background. Just showed up one day. That wouldn't happen to be you, would it?"

Dora's mouth went dry. "I-"

"Because I'm concerned, you see." His voice hardened. "This shelter receives considerable funding from my family's foundation. Funding that's contingent on maintaining certain standards and values."

Pastor Mark paled. "Mr. Westfield, I assure you-"

"I don't know what game you're playing," Mr. Westfield said directly to Dora, "but this is a respectable Christian establishment. Not a place for... experimentation."

The implication hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Dora felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.

"I'm just trying to help," she managed, her voice barely audible.

"Help?" Mr. Westfield scoffed. "By bringing controversy? By making decent people uncomfortable? You don't belong here."

"That's enough."

Gail stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing with anger. She moved to Dora's side, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.

"Dora belongs here as much as anyone," she continued, voice steady despite the flush of anger on her cheeks. "She works harder than most volunteers, the guests love her, and she has never made anyone uncomfortable except people who go out of their way to be troubled by her existence."

Pastor Mark stepped forward. "Gail, please. Mr. Westfield is our most generous supporter-"

"Then he should support all the people we help," Gail interrupted. "Not just the ones who fit his narrow idea of who's worthy."

Mr. Westfield's face darkened. "Young lady, you have no idea who you're speaking to. I've donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to this shelter."

"And we're grateful," Gail replied. "But that doesn't buy you the right to bully our volunteers."

"This isn't about bullying," he snapped. "It's about protecting values. About recognizing when something isn't right."

Dora felt herself shrinking, wanting to disappear. But Gail stood taller.

"The only thing that isn't right is treating someone unkindly because they're different from you." Gail's voice softened as she turned to Dora. "Are you okay?"

Dora nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

Pastor Mark looked like he might explode. "Gail, Mr. Westfield, please. Let's discuss this in my office-"

"There's nothing to discuss," Mr. Westfield said coldly. "Either you maintain appropriate standards for this facility, or my family will reconsider our support." He turned to leave, then looked back at Dora. "You may have these people fooled, but I see through you."

After he left, the silence was deafening. Pastor Mark ran a hand over his face, his expression a storm cloud of fury and fear.

"My office," he said to Gail. "Now."

"I'm coming too," Dora said, finding her voice at last. "This is about me."

Pastor Mark looked like he wanted to refuse, but after a moment he nodded curtly. "Fine."

The walk to his office felt endless. Dora was aware of eyes following them-other volunteers, guests who had heard raised voices. Jay caught her eye as they passed, their expression questioning. Dora gave a small shake of her head: Not now.

Pastor Mark's office was small and spare, dominated by a desk covered in neat stacks of paper. A cross hung on one wall, and a framed photo of Pastor Mark shaking hands with the governor sat on a shelf. He closed the door firmly behind them.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he asked Gail, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Charles Westfield provides a quarter of our annual budget. A quarter."

"He was being cruel," Gail said. "I couldn't just stand there."

"This isn't about your feelings!" Pastor Mark slammed his hand on the desk. "This is about keeping this shelter open, about having enough money to feed people and keep them warm. Your little crusade may have just cost us that."

Dora stepped forward. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble."

Pastor Mark turned to her, his expression softening slightly. "I know you didn't. But this is exactly what I was worried about. Your presence here raises questions-questions we can't answer."

"She hasn't done anything wrong," Gail insisted.

"It doesn't matter," Pastor Mark sighed. "Perception matters. And the perception is that there's something not right about a girl with no past, no records, living with a family she's not related to."

He looked at Dora directly. "I think it would be best if you took some time away from the shelter. Until this blows over."

"You're kicking her out?" Gail's voice rose in disbelief.

"I'm trying to salvage our relationship with our largest donor," Pastor Mark countered. "And protect the services we provide to hundreds of vulnerable people."

Dora felt tears burning in her eyes. "I understand."

"No, this isn't fair," Gail protested. "You can't punish Dora for Mr. Westfield's bigotry."

Pastor Mark's jaw tightened. "This isn't about fairness. It's about reality. And the reality is that we need his money."

"So you'd rather lose volunteers who actually care about the people here? Who treat everyone with dignity?" Gail's voice trembled with emotion. "Maybe you should ask yourself what this shelter is really about."

Pastor Mark straightened, his expression hardening. "I think you both need to leave. Now. We'll discuss this when tempers have cooled."

Outside the shelter, the summer sun felt too bright, mockingly cheerful against Dora's devastation. She walked beside Gail in silence, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm so sorry," Gail said finally. "Westfield is awful. Everyone knows it, but they let him get away with it because of his money."

Dora wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Maybe Pastor Mark is right. Maybe I don't belong there."

"Don't say that." Gail stopped, turning to face her. "You belong wherever you choose to be. And you've done nothing wrong."

"But I'm causing problems. For the shelter, for your parents-"

"No," Gail said firmly. "Ignorance and prejudice cause problems. Not you."

Dora looked at her friend-this fierce, loyal girl who had stood up to a powerful man without hesitation. "Thank you. For defending me."

"Always," Gail promised, squeezing her hand. "We'll figure this out. Together."

As they walked home, Dora felt something shift inside her-a quiet resolve taking root alongside the hurt. She wouldn't let Mr. Westfield's words define her. She wouldn't let fear push her back into hiding.

This was her life now. And she would fight for it, no matter what came next.

Chapter 14: Magic's Cost

The streetlights buzzed like angry hornets as Dora walked home from the shelter, her sneakers scuffing against cracked pavement. Gail's hand found hers in the twilight, their fingers intertwining without discussion. The air carried the metallic tang of impending rain, but neither spoke of turning back.

"Your parents will be furious," Dora whispered, breaking the silence that had stretched since Pastor Mark's ultimum.

Gail squeezed her hand tighter. "Let them be. They've defended you before."

But Dora heard the uncertainty beneath the bravado. The Mitchells' garage apartment-their sanctuary since the confrontation-felt less like refuge tonight. Every creak of the floorboards made Dora jump, every car passing the window sent her heart racing. She curled into Gail's desk chair, staring at the corkboard above the bed where Gail had pinned photos of their summer: Dora laughing while frosting cupcakes at the shelter's bake sale, Jay teaching them both to skateboard, a candid shot of Mrs. Kowalski napping in the family room's armchair.

A moth tapped against the window screen-pale wings beating in erratic circles. Dora's fingers went to the stone in her pocket, its carved insect warm against her palm.

"You should sleep," Gail murmured from the bed, but her voice lacked conviction.

Dora shook her head. "I need air."

The alley behind the Mitchells' house smelled of wet cardboard and diesel. Dora's breath hitched as she rounded the dumpster-a familiar green beanie visible between stacks of discarded moving boxes. Jay lay curled like a comma, their arms wrapped around a threadbare backpack, face pressed into a sweatshirt hood.

"Jay?" Dora knelt, her knees grinding against gravel.

They jerked awake, eyes wild. "Shit-Dora?"

"What are you doing here?"

Jay sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. The streetlight caught fresh scratches on their neck. "Pastor Dickhead's new 'security measures' include locking the shelter gates at 8 PM sharp. Guess who missed curfew?"

Dora's stomach churned. She'd seen the new padlocks that morning, heard Pastor Mark lecturing volunteers about "maintaining order." Without speaking, she unzipped her hoodie and draped it over Jay's shoulders.

"You don't have to-"

"Gail's parents are out of town." Dora stood, extending a hand. "C'mon."

The garage apartment's floor creaked under three sets of feet. Gail took one look at Jay's ashen face and began stripping sheets from her bed. "You take the mattress. Dora and I'll bunk on the floor."

Jay hovered in the doorway. "I can't-"

"You can," Dora said, pressing a warm washcloth into their hands. The gesture felt instinctive, though her fingers trembled. "We've got extra toothbrushes in the-"

A crash downstairs froze them all. Gail's head snapped toward the sound. "Stay here."

Dora followed anyway, her socked feet silent on the stairs. Through the kitchen window, she saw the source-a raccoon tipping the Mitchells' garbage can. But as Gail sighed in relief, Dora's gaze caught movement across the street.

Ms. Elara stood beneath the sickly glow of a sodium vapor lamp, her patched raincoat fluttering like moth wings. When their eyes met, the old woman pressed a finger to her lips and melted into shadow.

Dora's stone burned against her thigh.

Dawn found Dora scrubbing pancake batter from Gail's favorite mixing bowl. Jay slept soundly upstairs, but sleep had eluded Dora-every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Westfield's sneer, Pastor Mark's disappointed glare, her own reflection in the shelter's family room window.

The Mitchells' backyard glimmered with dew. Dora wandered barefoot through the garden, her toes sinking into cold soil. The moth stone's edges pressed familiar patterns into her palm as she reached the oak tree at the property line.

"Kindness always exacts a price, child."

Dora whirled. Ms. Elara perched on the garden bench like a misplaced shadow, her braid silver in the morning light.

"You!" Dora's heart thundered. "What did you do to me? Why can't anyone remember Wallace?"

The old woman's smile held infinite sadness. "I merely opened the door. You chose to walk through."

"Choose?" Dora's voice cracked. "I didn't choose to lose my family! To have everyone look at me like I'm-"

"A miracle?" Ms. Elara interrupted softly. She stood, joints creaking like old floorboards. "Tell me, when you found Jay last night-did you hesitate?"

"Of course not! They needed help!"

"Precisely." Ms. Elara's gnarled hand brushed Dora's cheek. "The magic didn't create your heart. It merely... clarified matters."

Dora jerked back. "Clarified? I don't exist on paper! I can't even get a library card!"

"And yet." Ms. Elara gestured to the house where Gail's laughter drifted through an open window. "You've built what matters."

The back door slammed. "Dora? Who're you talking to-" Gail froze on the porch steps, cereal bowl forgotten in her hand.

Ms. Elara inclined her head. "Miss Mitchell."

"Who is that?" Gail whispered, edging protectively toward Dora.

"An old friend," Dora said, surprising herself. She turned back to the bench-but only a single oak leaf stirred where Ms. Elara had sat.

The shelter's family room felt smaller with Pastor Mark hovering by the door. Dora kept her eyes on the picture book open in her lap-The Very Hungry Caterpillar-as six-year-old Miguel leaned against her shoulder.

"...and then he built a cocoon," Dora read, tracing the bright illustration.

"Like a blanket?" Miguel interrupted.

"Sort of. A special blanket where he could grow wings."

"Miss Dora?" Miguel's grubby finger poked her collarbone. "How come you got wings?"

Dora's breath caught. Before she could answer, Pastor Mark cleared his throat. "Dora. My office."

The children groaned as she stood. Miguel clung to her sleeve. "But we didn't finish!"

"I'll come back," Dora promised, though the words tasted like ash.

Pastor Mark's office smelled of lemon polish and regret. He didn't sit, didn't offer her a chair. "The board met last night."

Dora's knees threatened to buckle. She gripped the doorframe.

"Mr. Westfield has withdrawn his annual donation." Pastor Mark's voice flattened. "Fifty thousand dollars."

The number hung between them-a death sentence for the shelter's summer youth program, the free clinic Tuesdays, the emergency housing fund.

"I'll leave," Dora whispered.

Pastor Mark's fist hit the desk. A framed photo of his ordination ceremony clattered to the floor. "Don't you understand? It's too late for that!" He sagged into his chair, the anger draining as suddenly as it came. "He wants you publicly denounced. An example made."

The family room's laughter seeped under the door. Dora imagined Miguel waiting, the book still open to the caterpillar's transformation.

"Tell me," Pastor Mark said quietly, "were you ever Wallace Green?"

Dora's vision blurred. She saw her mother's hands braiding her sister's hair, her father's Bible left open on the kitchen table, the childhood bedroom that no longer held any trace of her existence.

"No," she said. "I was never him."

Pastor Mark studied her-really studied her-for the first time. "Then who are you?"

Dora touched the moth stone in her pocket. "Someone who wants to help."

The alley stank of urine and rotting takeout. Dora pressed Jay's spare key into their palm. "Gail's parents said you can stay as long as needed."

Jay stared at the key like it might bite them. "Why are you doing this?"

Dora thought of Ms. Elara's words, of Miguel's trusting eyes, of the shelter's empty donation ledger. "Because someone once did it for me."

As Jay disappeared into the garage apartment, Dora turned toward Main Street. The pawn shop's neon sign buzzed like the alley's streetlights. She hesitated at the door, her grandmother's locket warm against her sternum-the only physical remnant of her erased life.

The clerk didn't look up from his crossword. "Help you?"

Dora set the locket on the glass counter. "How much?"

Outside, she counted the bills twice before tucking them into the shelter's donation box. The moth stone pulsed once in her pocket-a heartbeat of approval-as she walked away.

Chapter 15: The Crush

The Mitchell's living room was transformed. Blankets draped over furniture formed a makeshift fort, fairy lights twinkled around the perimeter, and the coffee table overflowed with bowls of popcorn, candy, and soda. Dora sat cross-legged on a pile of cushions, watching Gail fiddle with the projector her father had brought home from work. A white sheet hung against the wall, rippling slightly from the air conditioning.

"Movie night is sacred in this house," Gail explained, not looking up from the tangle of cords. "Dad says everyone needs a little escape sometimes."

Dora nodded, though Gail couldn't see her. She'd never had movie nights before-her old family believed television was best consumed in small, controlled doses, preferably educational or religious in nature. The casual abundance of this night-of snacks, of comfort, of permission to simply enjoy-felt like another small miracle.

"Success!" Gail pumped her fist as the projector hummed to life, casting a blue rectangle on the sheet. She flopped down beside Dora, their shoulders brushing. "Mom and Dad are at their book club until eleven, so we have the place to ourselves."

"What are we watching?" Dora asked, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from where their bodies touched.

Gail grinned, brandishing a flash drive. "A classic-But I'm a Cheerleader. Have you seen it?"

Dora shook her head.

"Oh my god, you're going to love it. It's this satire about conversion therapy, but it's actually hilarious and has this amazing romance and-" Gail stopped, her cheeks flushing. "Sorry. I'm doing my thing again."

"What thing?"

"My enthusiasm overwhelm. Jay says I come on too strong."

Dora smiled. "I like your enthusiasm. It's... alive."

Something flickered across Gail's face-surprise, maybe, or pleasure-before she turned to plug in the flash drive. The movie began, and they settled into comfortable silence, interrupted only by Gail's occasional commentary or their shared laughter.

Halfway through, as the main characters shared a clandestine moment in the woods, Dora became acutely aware of Gail beside her-the way her laugh bubbled up from deep in her chest, the small scar above her eyebrow that crinkled when she smiled, the soft curve of her neck when she tilted her head. Heat crept up Dora's spine, unfamiliar and electric.

Oh, she thought. Oh no.

She forced her attention back to the movie, but the feeling persisted-this new awareness, this sudden inability to ignore how the dim light caught in Gail's hair or how her fingers moved expressively as she explained a reference Dora had missed.

When the credits rolled, Dora realized she'd absorbed almost nothing from the second half.

"What did you think?" Gail asked, turning to her with expectant eyes.

"It was... really good," Dora managed, hoping her face didn't betray her distraction.

Gail studied her for a moment. "You hated it."

"No! No, I liked it. I just..." Dora floundered, searching for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "I got lost in thought, I guess."

"About?" Gail leaned closer, her expression open and curious.

About you, Dora thought. About how I never noticed the gold flecks in your eyes before. About how your existence makes the world feel less sharp-edged.

"About the shelter," she said instead. "And Mr. Westfield, and Pastor Mark, and all of it."

Gail's face shifted, her private smile replaced by the fierce determination Dora had come to recognize as her activism mode. "I've been thinking about that too. We need to do something-not just for you, but for everyone Pastor Mark tries to push out."

She jumped up, grabbing her notebook from the coffee table and flipping to a fresh page. "I've been researching. The shelter gets public funding, which means they can't discriminate. And Mr. Westfield sits on like three different boards that have anti-discrimination policies."

Dora watched Gail pace, her hair falling loose from its bun as she gestured, her whole body vibrating with purpose. This was the Gail everyone at the shelter knew-the organizer, the fierce defender, the girl who never backed down. But Dora also knew the Gail who cried at dog food commercials, who sang off-key in the shower, who secretly read romance novels and hid them under her mattress.

"We could start with a petition," Gail continued, scribbling notes. "Get the other volunteers on board. Maybe even some of the guests who've been unfairly treated. Mrs. Kowalski would sign for sure, and Jay, and-"

"You're amazing," Dora said softly.

Gail stopped mid-sentence, blinking. "What?"

Heat rushed to Dora's cheeks. "I just mean-you care so much. You fight so hard. It's amazing."

Gail's expression softened. "You'd do the same for me."

I'd do anything for you, Dora thought, the realization landing with quiet certainty.

"Yeah," was all she said.

Gail returned to the fort, sitting cross-legged across from Dora, notebook open in her lap. "We should start a list of allies-people we know would support us."

Dora nodded, trying to focus as Gail outlined her plan. But her mind kept wandering to the movie's final scene-the two girls kissing in the back of a convertible, driving toward possibility together. She wondered what it would be like to kiss Gail, to hold her hand as more than a friend.

The thought simultaneously thrilled and terrified her. She'd never had a crush before-not a real one, not one that made her palms sweat and her heart race. As Wallace, she'd forced herself into a few awkward dates with girls, each one confirming what she already knew: that she wasn't like other boys, that something essential was misaligned.

But this-this felt different. This felt true.

"Earth to Dora." Gail waved a hand in front of her face. "You're a million miles away tonight."

Dora blinked. "Sorry. Just tired, I guess."

Gail set her notebook aside, concern replacing enthusiasm. "Are you okay? Really?"

"I'm fine," Dora said quickly. "Just... processing a lot."

Gail shifted closer, taking Dora's hand. "You can talk to me. About anything."

Dora looked down at their joined hands-Gail's fingers ink-stained and calloused from guitar, her own still getting used to trimmed nails and the silver butterfly ring Gail had given her last week. How could she explain this new feeling? This tender, terrifying awareness?

"I'm grateful," she said finally. "For all of this. For you."

Gail squeezed her hand. "Don't get sappy on me, Mitchell. I'll leave you alone with The Notebook."

They both laughed, the moment passing, but something had shifted inside Dora-a recognition she couldn't unknow.

Later, as they cleaned up the living room before Gail's parents returned, Dora found herself noticing a hundred new things: the way Gail hummed under her breath as she worked, the unconscious grace of her movements, the tiny rainbow pin she always wore on her jacket lapel.

"We should do this again," Gail said, folding the last blanket. "Next time you can pick the movie."

Dora nodded, her heart doing a small somersault. "I'd like that."

Upstairs, in the guest room that had become hers, Dora sat on the edge of the bed, clutching her notebook. Outside, a summer storm gathered, lightning occasionally illuminating the quiet street. She opened to a fresh page and began to write.

Tonight, I realized something. Something I think I've known but haven't let myself see. I have feelings for Gail-not just friendship, but something more. Something that makes my heart beat faster when she looks at me, something that makes me notice every detail about her, something that makes me wish for impossible things.

I don't know what to do with these feelings. Gail has been my best friend, my protector, my guide through this new life. What if telling her ruins everything? What if she doesn't feel the same way?

And even if she did-who am I to ask for more? She's already given me so much. A home, a family, a place to belong. It feels selfish to want anything beyond that.

For now, I'll keep these feelings to myself. I'll be her friend, her ally in whatever fight she takes on next. That's enough. It has to be enough.

Dora closed the notebook, pressing it to her chest. Outside, rain began to fall, drumming against the window like impatient fingers. A crack of thunder shook the house.

Her door creaked open, and Gail peeked in, hair twisted into a messy bun for sleep. "You okay? You know how I feel about storms."

Dora smiled. Gail, fearless in every other way, had a childlike anxiety about thunderstorms-a secret she shared only with those closest to her.

"I'm fine," Dora said. "Do you want to stay?"

Gail's relief was immediate. "Just until it passes."

She climbed onto the bed, settling against the headboard with a pillow hugged to her chest. Dora joined her, careful to leave space between them, her heart racing with this new awareness.

As the storm raged outside, they talked about small things-shelter gossip, a new song Gail was learning on guitar, plans for the weekend. When lightning flashed, Gail flinched slightly, and Dora resisted the urge to pull her close.

Eventually, Gail's eyes grew heavy, her sentences trailing off mid-thought. "I should go to my room," she murmured, making no move to leave.

"You can stay," Dora said softly. "If you want."

Gail smiled drowsily, already half-asleep. "You're the best, you know that?"

Dora watched as Gail's breathing deepened, her face relaxing into peaceful slumber. In sleep, the fierce activist was gone, replaced by a girl who looked younger, more vulnerable.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," Dora whispered, the words barely audible over the rain.

Gail stirred slightly but didn't wake. Dora pulled the blanket over them both and closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Gail's breathing and the storm outside.

In the morning, she would be just Dora again-Gail's friend, the shelter volunteer, the girl with no past. But for tonight, in the quiet dark, she let herself acknowledge the truth that had been growing inside her, steady and undeniable as a heartbeat: she was in love with her best friend, and she had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter 16: Pastor’s Past

The ledger entries blurred into gray smudges under Pastor Mark’s trembling fingers. Moonlight pooled on his desk, illuminating the spreadsheet’s grim verdict: Donation Status: WESTFIELD, CHARLES – WITHDRAWN. The numbers mocked him-$50,000 vanished, summer programs slashed, the shelter’s food budget halved. He closed his laptop with a shudder, the click echoing like a gunshot in the empty office.

A moth battered itself against the overhead light, wings thumping a frantic rhythm against the glass. Mark’s gaze drifted to the family photo wedged between his Bible and a stack of sermon notes-his ordination day, 2003. His mother’s lace collar starched to perfection, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder, Alex’s face carefully cropped out of the frame.

June 1998

The screen door slammed. Seventeen-year-old Mark froze on the porch steps, his Little League trophy slipping in sweaty palms. Through the kitchen window, he saw his father’s fist come down on the Formica table.

“Abomination,” Dad spat, the word warped by the glass.

Alex stood framed in afternoon light, their cropped hair glowing like a halo. At fifteen, they’d never looked more like Mom-same sharp cheekbones, same defiant tilt of the chin. “My name’s Alex now,” they said, voice steady. “And I won’t apologize for who I am.”

Mom crossed herself. “You’ll burn. Both of you.”

Mark’s stomach lurched. He’d known this was coming-the eyeliner smudges on Alex’s pillowcase, the stolen men’s shirts, the way they’d started locking the bathroom door. But he’d prayed. Oh, how he’d prayed.

“Get out.” Dad’s voice shook. “Take your devilry elsewhere.”

Alex didn’t flinch. They turned to Mark, eyes pleading beneath the mascara clumping their lashes. “Tell them, Marky. Tell them I’m still me.”

The trophy’s golden batter dug into Mark’s palm. He stared at his cleats-white leather speckled with infield dirt. “You’re… you’re confused, Allie.”

Something broke behind Alex’s eyes. They grabbed their backpack, the one covered in band patches and safety pins. “Keep your damn trophy,” they whispered, brushing past him.

Mom’s rosary beads clattered against the windowpane as Alex vanished down Magnolia Street.

The moth fell still, wings splayed against the lampshade. Mark traced the photo’s torn edge where Alex’s shoulder used to be. Twenty-three years, and the shame still curdled his prayers.

A knock shattered the silence.

“Pastor Mark?” Dora hovered in the doorway, her thrift-store cardigan swallowing her frame. She held a stack of folded towels, the shelter’s lavender detergent clinging to her like incense. “Mrs. Kowalski sent these for the family room.”

He straightened his tie. “Set them there.”

She hesitated, gaze snagging on the moth. “They only live a week, you know. After they emerge.”

“Pardon?”

“Luna moths.” She nodded at the lifeless wings. “They don’t even have mouths. Just… exist to find light.” Her fingers brushed the doorframe. “Seems lonely.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “We’ve all got crosses to bear.”

Dora’s eyes flicked to the cropped family photo. For a heartbeat, he swore she saw-the phantom outline of Alex’s absence, the ledger’s damning numbers, the confession burning his tongue.

Then she was gone, footsteps echoing down the hall.

September 1998

The payphone reeked of urine. Mark fed it another quarter, hands shaking. Three months since Alex left. Three months of Mom crying into her casserole dishes, Dad preaching about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mark scrubbing his skin raw after every cold shower.

“Hello?” Alex’s voice crackled through the line-deeper now, raspy like they’d been smoking.

“It’s me.” Mark pressed his forehead to the metal booth. “Where are you?”

A pause. “Bus station. Chattanooga.”

“Come home.”

Alex laughed-a hollow sound. “To what? More Bible verses and conversion pamphlets?”

“I’ll talk to Dad. We’ll fix this.”

“Fix me?” The line hissed. “I’m not broken, Marky.”

“Please. Before you…” He couldn’t say die. Couldn’t imagine Alex’s piercings rusting in some alley, their Doc Martens tossed in a dumpster.

“Tell Mom I’m sorry about her good saucepan. I needed something to cook ramen in.” The dial tone drowned Mark’s sob.

Rain lashed the shelter’s windows. Mark stared at the donation box someone had left on his desk-$127 in crumpled bills and a silver locket. The note read: For the garden. -D.

His thumb found the locket’s clasp. Inside, two faces smiled up at him: a gray-haired woman and a toddler with ice cream smeared across their cheeks. A family preserved in miniature.

“Pastor?” Mrs. Kowalski stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “The board’s ready for you.”

He snapped the locket shut. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”

The moth’s wings crumbled when he lifted it from the lampshade. Mark cupped the broken body, feeling the papery fragments cling to his skin. For twenty-three years, he’d preached about lost sheep. Now, faced with his own wandering flock-Dora’s quiet resilience, Jay’s guarded hope, Alex’s ghost in every mirrored surface-he understood the true cost of shepherding.

He buried the moth in the potted fern by the window.

Some crosses couldn’t be borne alone.

Chapter 17: The Protest

The shelter’s community bulletin board had become a mosaic of resistance. Rainbow flyers overlapped with handwritten notes-Pride Picnic Saturday! Bring your stories and sandwiches!-while polaroids of shelter residents smiling beneath paper flags fluttered like prayer ribbons. Dora stood back, adjusting the lopsided banner Gail had painted: LOVE IS NEVER WRONG in dripping gold letters. Her hands still smelled of acrylic and hope.

“They’ll see it from the highway,” Gail said, stepping beside her. She wore a crop top with the sleeves ripped off, exposing the tattooed ferns on her shoulders-a deliberate provocation.

Dora’s gaze drifted to Pastor Mark’s office window. The blinds were shut, but she imagined him inside, tallying sins like inventory. “What if no one comes?”

Gail hooked a finger through Dora’s belt loop, pulling her close. “Then we’ll eat all the lemon bars ourselves.”

The plan had crystallized in the Mitchells’ garage two nights earlier, maps and markers spread across the hood of Mr. Mitchell’s vintage Mustang. Jay had swiped a stack of LGBTQ+ history zines from the library, their pages bristling with sticky notes. “We need to show Pastor Dickhead this isn’t just about us,” they’d said, flipping to a photo of the 1969 Cooper Do-Nuts riot. “It’s about everyone he’s ever made feel small.”

Now, folding chairs circled the shelter’s overgrown courtyard where dandelions punched through cracks in the concrete. Dora arranged a basket of pronoun pins (She/Her, They/Them, Ask Me!) beside a weathered copy of Audre Lorde’s Zami. Her fingers lingered on the cover-a memoir of becoming, of finding language for the unspeakable.

“Need a hand?”

Mrs. Kowalski stood in the doorway, holding a tray of pierogis arranged in a rainbow. Flour dusted her apron, and her knuckles gleamed with arthritis cream.

“You didn’t have to-”

“Pssh.” She set the tray beside the lemon bars. “My babcia marched with Solidarity in ’80. Protest food is in my blood.”

Pastor Mark found them at noon.

He emerged from the shelter’s side entrance, his shadow slicing across the picnic blankets where a dozen residents lounged-trans teens sketching designs for protest signs, elderly veterans debating the best way to layer glitter glue. Dora watched his gaze snag on the progress pride flag Jay had hung from the fire escape, its colors bleeding into the June sun.

“Miss Mitchell.” His voice carried the strained calm of a man balancing on a high wire. “A word?”

Gail stepped forward, but Dora caught her wrist. “I’ve got this.”

The storage closet reeked of industrial cleaner and stale devotionals. Pastor Mark shut the door, plunging them into a darkness punctuated by the red glow of an exit sign.

“This event-” he began.

“Is happening,” Dora finished. She willed her voice not to shake. “We have permits. The board approved the use of the courtyard.”

“The board,” he said slowly, “didn’t realize you’d be distributing… materials.” He held up one of Jay’s zines-a diagram of gender identities beside a timeline of queer rights.

Dora crossed her arms, the moth stone a warm weight in her pocket. “Knowledge isn’t contraband.”

“You’re putting this entire organization at risk.” His fist clenched around the zine. “The Westfields already pulled funding over your little garden stunt. Do you know what happens if the city revokes our license? Where these people will go?”

These people. The words hung between them, sharp as broken glass.

“You think I don’t care?” Dora’s nails bit into her palms. “I’m one of ‘these people.’ So was Alex.”

Pastor Mark froze.

The name-his sister’s true name-echoed in the cramped space. Dora hadn’t planned to say it, but there it was, a truth as undeniable as the heartbeat in her throat.

“How did you-”

“You talk in your sleep.” The confession spilled out, raw and reckless. “When you nap in your office after lunch. You say their name.”

For a heartbeat, she saw it-the boy he’d been, watching his sibling walk away down Magnolia Street. Then his mask slid back into place.

“Get out.”

The protest began at 3 PM.

Dora stood on the makeshift stage-a pallet draped in a bedsheet-her sneakers squeaking against the plywood. The crowd rippled outward: shelter residents clutching rainbow-iced cookies, queer teens from neighboring towns, Mrs. Kowalski’s book club waving Love is Love signs in Polish.

“My name is Dora,” she began, the mic feedback screeching. Gail grinned from the sidelines, giving her a thumbs-up. “And eight weeks ago, I didn’t exist.”

A hush fell.

“Not on paper, anyway. But people here”-she gestured to Jay, to Mrs. Kowalski, to the nonbinary teen handing out water bottles-“saw me. Not just my body, but my heart. And that’s what Pride is, right? Being seen. Being believed.”

Someone whooped. A toddler waved a sparkly wand, casting flecks of light across the crowd.

Then the sirens started.

Pastor Mark stood at the edge of the courtyard, flanked by two cops. His face was ashen, but his voice boomed with righteous fury. “This gathering is unauthorized! You have five minutes to disperse!”

The crowd murmured, a current of fear cutting through the joy. Dora’s knees buckled, but Gail was there, steadying her elbow.

“Check the permits!” Gail shouted, brandishing a folder. “Everything’s in order!”

One cop squinted at the paperwork. The other adjusted his belt, eyeing the progress flag. “Says here you’re allowed fifty people max. This looks closer to seventy.”

“Since when do you math?” Jay called out, sparking nervous laughter.

The cop reddened. “Don’t get smart, kid.”

Dora stepped off the stage, her heart hammering. She faced Pastor Mark directly, the sun glinting off his cross necklace. “You don’t have to do this.”

For a fractured second, she thought he might relent-his eyes flickered to the photo booth where a trans man and his adoptive mother hugged beneath a Chosen Family banner. Then his jaw hardened.

“Pack. It. Up.”

They regrouped in the alley behind the shelter, the stench of dumpsters mixing with rage.

“We’ll march to City Hall!” Gail paced, her boots crunching broken glass. “They can’t arrest all of us!”

Jay shook their head. “Cops’ll kettle us before we hit Main Street.”

Mrs. Kowalski pressed a Tupperware of pierogis into Dora’s hands. “Eat. Stalin always said revolutions need carbs.”

Dora stared at the moth stone in her palm-its wings seemed to pulse in time with the chants drifting from the street. Whose shelter? Our shelter!

“Hey.” Gail tilted Dora’s chin up. “You’re thinking about running.”

“I’m thinking,” Dora whispered, “about how many people lose everything for moments like this.”

Gail kissed her forehead. “Then let’s make it count.”

The riot began with a song.

As the cops moved in, Dora linked arms with Jay and Mrs. Kowalski. Someone started We Are Family, off-key and defiant. The toddler with the sparkly wand sat on her father’s shoulders, scattering light like a tiny disco ball.

Pastor Mark watched from the fire escape, his grip whitening on the railing. When the first cop reached for Jay’s arm, Dora stepped between them.

“Don’t touch them.”

The cop laughed. “Or what, princess?”

Then Gail was there, phone raised. “Assaulting minors looks great on Instagram!”

A click. A flash. The cop hesitated, his buddy pulling him back.

Dora didn’t see who threw the first handful of glitter. It caught the sunlight as it arced-a shower of gold that dusted the cops’ shoulders, the pavement, the wilted hydrangeas in the shelter’s planters.

For a heartbeat, everyone froze.

Then the toddler giggled.

The crowd erupted-not in violence, but in joy. Glitter bombs burst like fireworks. A drag queen in full sequin regalia distributed rainbow popsicles. Mrs. Kowalski led a conga line past the sputtering cops, her Love is Love sign held high.

Dora turned, searching the fire escape.

It was empty.

That night, they found Pastor Mark in the sanctuary.

He sat slumped in the front pew, a bottle of communion wine dangling from his fingers. The crucifix loomed above him, its shadow slicing his face into halves.

Gail moved to speak, but Dora shook her head.

They left him there-swaying, silent, surrounded by the confetti of a battle he’d already lost.

Chapter 18: First Kiss

The shelter was quieter than usual the morning after the protest, as if the walls themselves were catching their breath. Sunlight crept through the high windows, painting soft rectangles across the battered tables. Dora found herself drifting from task to task-wiping counters, restocking napkins-her mind replaying every moment of the day before: the rainbow flags, the chants, the way Gail’s hand had found hers in the chaos, grounding her.

Jay was the first to break the silence. They appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes rimmed red but shining. “You did it,” they said, voice hoarse with pride. “You stood up to him. To all of them.”

Dora shook her head, embarrassed. “We did it. I never could’ve-” Her voice caught, and she looked away, blinking fast.

Jay offered a crooked smile. “You’re braver than you think, Dora.” They hesitated, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even you.”

Dora managed a smile, warmth blooming in her chest. “Thanks, Jay.”

They left her to her thoughts, and Dora slipped out the back door, needing air. The garden was battered but alive-trampled dandelions, a snapped tomato cage, glitter still clinging to the leaves. She knelt, brushing dirt from a patch of basil, and let herself breathe.

A shadow fell across the garden. Gail stood at the gate, hair a wild halo in the sunlight, a bandage on her knuckle from yesterday’s frantic sign-making.

“Hey,” Gail said, voice soft.

“Hey.” Dora sat back on her heels, brushing soil from her hands. “Did you sleep?”

Gail shrugged. “A little. Kept replaying everything. Wondering if we did the right thing.”

Dora looked up, heart pounding. “We did. Even if it was messy.”

Gail sank down beside her, knees drawn to her chest. For a long moment, they just sat in silence, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and a mourning dove’s call.

“I was scared,” Dora admitted. “When the cops came. When Pastor Mark started yelling. I thought-maybe I’d ruined everything for you. For Jay. For everyone.”

Gail shook her head, fierce. “You didn’t ruin anything. You showed them what matters. You showed me.” She hesitated, then reached out, her fingers brushing Dora’s wrist. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

Dora’s breath caught. “I’m not. I was terrified.”

Gail’s hand found hers, squeezing tight. “That’s what makes it brave.”

The words hung between them, electric. Dora’s heart hammered in her chest. She looked at Gail-really looked-the way her freckles spilled across her cheeks, the way her eyes glinted with unshed tears, the way her thumb traced gentle circles on Dora’s skin.

“I’ve never-” Dora began, then faltered.

Gail’s voice was barely a whisper. “Me neither. Not like this.”

The world narrowed: the scent of basil and earth, the warmth of Gail’s hand, the hush of the morning. Dora leaned in, trembling, and Gail met her halfway. Their lips brushed-soft, uncertain, a question and an answer all at once.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The ache of yesterday, the fear of tomorrow, the weight of being seen-all of it faded, replaced by something bright and impossibly tender.

When they broke apart, both were breathless, cheeks flushed.

“Wow,” Gail said, voice shaking with laughter and awe. “Was that-okay?”

Dora nodded, dazed. “Yeah. More than okay.”

They sat in stunned silence, hands still entwined.

A shout from the shelter’s back door startled them. Jay’s head poked out, grinning. “You two coming in, or should I bring out a picnic?”

Gail groaned, burying her face in Dora’s shoulder. “We’re coming!”

Dora laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere new. She squeezed Gail’s hand, and together they stood, brushing dirt from their jeans.

Inside, the shelter was coming alive again. Mrs. Kowalski was already rolling out dough for pierogi, humming a hymn under her breath. Jay was setting up a chessboard, their smile sly.

Gail nudged Dora. “Should we tell them?”

Dora hesitated, nerves fluttering. “Maybe not yet. Let’s just… have today.”

Gail nodded, understanding. “Today sounds good.”

They worked side by side all morning, laughter and glances passing between them like a secret language. Dora felt lighter than she had in weeks-like she’d finally stepped into the sunlight after years in shadow.

But as the lunch rush ebbed and the dining hall emptied, reality crept back in. Pastor Mark’s office door was shut, blinds drawn tight. The threat of consequences, of being forced out, still loomed.

Dora found herself in the storeroom, stacking cans, when Gail appeared in the doorway.

“You okay?” Gail asked, voice gentle.

Dora nodded, but her hands shook. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Pastor Mark to call me in and-”

Gail stepped close, resting her forehead against Dora’s. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone. I’m with you. Jay’s with you. My family, too. We’ll figure it out.”

Dora closed her eyes, letting herself believe it. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” Gail whispered. “But I think that’s okay.”

A knock at the door made them jump apart. It was Mrs. Kowalski, holding a tray of cookies. “Break time, girls. You’ve earned it.”

Gail winked at Dora as they followed Mrs. Kowalski to the kitchen. They sat at the table, trading stories and jokes, pretending for a little while that the world was simple and safe.

After lunch, the three of them walked to the park, the summer air thick with the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle. Jay challenged Gail to a race, and Dora cheered them on, laughter ringing out across the playground.

They collapsed in the shade of an old oak, breathless and grinning.

“I wish every day could be like this,” Dora said quietly.

Gail squeezed her hand. “It can be. Maybe not always easy, but-real. Ours.”

Jay flopped down beside them, stealing a cookie from Gail’s pocket. “You two are disgustingly cute, you know that?”

Dora blushed, but Gail just grinned. “Took us long enough.”

They watched the clouds drift by, the world spinning gently on.

As the sun began to set, they made their way back to the shelter. The building glowed in the golden light, battered but standing.

At the door, Gail paused, turning to Dora. “Whatever happens next-we’re in this together. Okay?”

Dora nodded, heart full. “Together.”

Inside, the world waited: challenges, questions, the threat of being forced out. But for now, Dora carried the memory of Gail’s lips on hers, the warmth of her hand, the knowledge that she was seen and loved.

That night, as Dora lay in bed at the Mitchells’ house, she turned the day over in her mind-the fear, the joy, the miracle of being herself. She wrote in her notebook, the words flowing easy for once:

Today, I was brave. Today, I was loved. Maybe that’s what girlhood is-learning to let yourself be seen, even when it’s terrifying. Learning to love, even when it might hurt. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, I am enough.

She closed the notebook, hope blooming in her chest. She was Dora. She was real. And she was not alone

Chapter 19: The Investigation

The shelter’s kitchen was thick with the scent of cinnamon rolls and tension. Dora stood at the sink, scrubbing a baking sheet, her mind replaying the memory of Gail’s lips on hers in the garden. Every time she glanced at Gail across the room, her heart stuttered, but neither of them spoke of it. The world outside their bubble, however, was anything but silent.

Rumors had grown teeth. Dora heard them in the way Mrs. Turner’s voice dropped when she entered a room, in the sideways glances from volunteers who’d known Wallace and now eyed Dora with suspicion. She tried to focus on the work-stacking plates, wiping counters, listening to Jay talk about their latest mural-but the unease gnawed at her.

That morning, Pastor Mark’s office door stayed closed. The blinds were drawn, and when Dora passed by, she caught the low murmur of voices-his and a stranger’s, deep and clipped. She pressed on, pretending not to notice, but a chill ran down her spine.

After lunch, Gail found her in the hallway, hands shoved deep in her pockets. “Something’s up,” she whispered. “Dad says Mark’s been calling around town, asking questions about you. And there was a guy here this morning-suit, briefcase, looked like he’d never set foot in a shelter before.”

Dora’s stomach dropped. “A private investigator?”

Gail nodded grimly. “I think so. My mom tried to talk to Mark, but he shut her down. He’s looking for dirt, Dora. Anything to prove you don’t belong.”

Dora’s hands trembled. “What if he finds out? What if-what if I just disappear? Like I never existed?”

Gail squeezed her arm. “You’re not alone. My parents are furious. They’re going to the board. And if Mark tries anything, we’ll fight back. I promise.”

Dora nodded, swallowing hard. She wanted to believe it, but fear pressed in on all sides.

The next day, the shelter buzzed with nervous energy. Dora kept her head down, focusing on the tasks at hand. She sorted canned goods in the storeroom, her mind racing. Every time the phone rang at the front desk, she flinched, half-expecting to be called into Mark’s office.

Jay appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of cocoa. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dora managed a weak smile. “Just tired.”

Jay sat beside her on a crate, passing over a mug. “People are talking. About you. About the protest. About Mark. Mrs. Kowalski says the board’s meeting tonight.”

Dora’s grip tightened on the mug. “I wish I could just be normal. Invisible.”

Jay shook their head. “You’re not invisible, Dora. That’s the problem. You’re real. And you make things happen. That scares people like Mark.”

They sat in silence, sipping cocoa, the hum of the fridge filling the space between them.

That evening, Gail’s parents arrived at the shelter, their faces set with determination. Susan Mitchell, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, marched straight to Pastor Mark’s office. Robert followed, jaw clenched.

Dora watched from the hallway, anxiety churning in her gut. Gail slipped up beside her, squeezing her hand.

Inside the office, voices rose-Susan’s sharp, Mark’s defensive. “You have no right to investigate a child,” Susan said, her voice carrying through the thin walls. “Dora is staying with us. She’s safe. If you have concerns, you bring them to us, not some stranger.”

Mark’s reply was muffled, but Dora caught the words “background check” and “liability.” Robert’s voice rumbled, low and dangerous: “You’re not the police, Mark. And you don’t get to decide who’s worthy of help.”

The door opened suddenly, and Susan emerged, cheeks flushed. She spotted Dora and Gail, softening. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she said, pulling Dora into a brief, fierce hug. “We’re not letting him push you out.”

But the damage was done. The next morning, a stranger waited in the shelter’s lobby. He wore a gray suit and carried a leather folder. When Dora entered, he stood, blocking her path.

“Miss Dora, is it?” His tone was polite, but his eyes were cold. “I’m Mr. Harlan. I’m conducting a routine inquiry on behalf of the shelter’s administration.”

Dora’s pulse hammered in her ears. “I-I’m just a volunteer.”

He smiled thinly. “Of course. I just have a few questions. Where are you from? Who are your parents? What school did you attend before coming here?”

Dora’s mind went blank. She’d rehearsed answers with Gail, but under the man’s scrutiny, the words tangled. “I-I don’t really have a family. I was staying with friends. The Mitchells took me in.”

He jotted notes, expression unreadable. “No school records? No identification?”

Dora shook her head, heat rising in her cheeks. “I-I lost everything. It’s complicated.”

Mr. Harlan closed his folder. “Thank you for your time.” He turned away, leaving Dora trembling in the middle of the lobby.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Dora felt every eye on her, every whisper a potential accusation. At lunch, Mrs. Kowalski pressed a warm roll into her hand.

“You’re stronger than you think, Dora,” she murmured. “Don’t let them scare you.”

Jay found her in the rec room, fidgeting with a chess piece. “He cornered me too,” they said. “Asked about you. I told him you’re my friend. That’s all he needs to know.”

Dora managed a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

Gail joined them, her face stormy. “My parents are meeting with the board tonight. They’re bringing a lawyer. Mark can’t just investigate you without cause.”

Dora nodded, hope flickering. “I just want to stay. To help.”

Gail squeezed her hand. “You will. We’ll make sure of it.”

That evening, the shelter board convened in the conference room. Dora waited in the hallway with Gail, Jay, and Susan Mitchell. The minutes crawled by, tension mounting.

Finally, the door opened. Pastor Mark stepped out, face pale. He glanced at Dora, something like regret flickering in his eyes.

Susan emerged, her expression triumphant. “They’re putting a stop to the investigation. Mark’s been warned-no more private eyes, no more digging. If he has concerns, he brings them to the board, not strangers.”

Dora sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

Susan hugged her. “You’re family now. We protect our own.”

Later, as the shelter emptied for the night, Dora and Gail sat on the back steps, watching the stars emerge.

“I was so scared,” Dora whispered. “I thought I’d lose everything.”

Gail leaned against her, head on her shoulder. “You won’t. Not while I’m here. Not while my family’s here.”

Dora closed her eyes, letting the warmth of Gail’s presence steady her.

“You’re not alone, Dora,” Gail said softly. “Not ever again.”

Dora smiled, hope blooming in her chest. The investigation had threatened to erase her, but instead it had revealed something deeper-a network of care, a chosen family willing to fight for her place in the world.

As the night deepened, Dora wrote in her notebook:

Today, I was seen. Not just as a problem to be solved, but as someone worth protecting. Maybe that’s what family really is-not just blood, but the people who stand beside you when the world tries to erase you. I’m scared, but I’m not alone. And that makes all the difference.

She closed the notebook, the fear receding. Whatever came next, she would face it with Gail, with Jay, with the Mitchells-her family, chosen and true

Chapter 20: The Erasure

Dora woke to the sound of rain tapping against the Mitchells’ guest room window, the world outside blurred and gray. For a moment, she lay still, cocooned in the warmth of borrowed blankets, listening to the house breathe around her: the distant clatter of Gail making breakfast, the hum of the dishwasher, the muted voices of her new family. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the steady thump of her heart-a rhythm she was finally learning to trust.

But beneath the comfort, a strange unease gnawed at her. She’d had another dream: a hallway lined with doors, each one marked with a name she almost recognized. When she tried to open one, it dissolved into mist. She woke with the taste of loss on her tongue.

Downstairs, the kitchen was bright with the scent of cinnamon and coffee. Gail grinned as Dora entered, waving a spatula. “Morning, sleeping beauty. I made pancakes. Dad’s already left for work, but Mom says you can have first dibs.”

Dora smiled, letting herself be drawn into the swirl of morning routine. She poured orange juice, set the table, tried to ignore the ache in her chest. Gail watched her, concern flickering in her eyes.

“You okay?” she asked softly, when her mom stepped out to answer the phone.

Dora hesitated. “Just… weird dreams. I keep seeing doors I can’t open. Names I can’t remember.”

Gail set down the spatula and came to her side. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Dora nodded, but the feeling lingered.

At the shelter, Dora’s day began with routine-sorting donations, helping Mrs. Kowalski knead bread, laughing at Jay’s terrible puns as they painted a new mural in the rec room. But everywhere she turned, she felt the edges of her world fraying.

It started with a question from a new volunteer. “What school did you say you went to?” she asked, friendly and oblivious.

Dora opened her mouth-and nothing came. She couldn’t remember the name of her old school, the mascot, even the color of the lockers. The memory was gone, as if someone had erased it with a careful hand.

She covered quickly, mumbling something about moving around a lot, but the encounter left her shaken.

Later, she found Jay in the garden, their hands stained with dirt and green paint. “You ever feel like you’re disappearing?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jay glanced up, concern in their eyes. “You’re more real than anyone I know.”

Dora tried to smile. “What if I’m not? What if I’m just… fading?”

Jay shook their head. “You’re here. You’re helping. That’s real.”

But Dora wasn’t sure. At lunch, she reached for her phone to text her old friend from before-only to realize she couldn’t remember their name, or even what they looked like. Her contacts list was empty except for the people she’d met since becoming Dora.

The feeling grew worse as the day went on. In the shelter office, Pastor Mark was on the phone, his voice tight. “No, I’m telling you, there’s no record. I’ve checked every database. It’s like she never existed.”

Dora froze in the hallway, her breath catching. She pressed herself against the wall, listening.

“I don’t care what the Mitchells say,” Pastor Mark continued. “If she can’t prove who she is, she can’t stay here. It’s a liability.”

Dora slipped away before he could see her, her hands shaking. She found Gail in the storage room, restocking canned goods.

“I think I’m disappearing,” Dora whispered, her voice cracking. “Not just from my old life, but from everywhere. Pastor Mark can’t find any record of me. I can’t remember things-my old friends, my school, even my parents’ faces are getting blurry.”

Gail set down a can of beans and pulled Dora into a fierce hug. “You’re not disappearing. You’re right here. With me.”

Dora clung to her, but the fear wouldn’t let go.

That night, after dinner, Dora sat at the kitchen table with a stack of papers the Mitchells’ lawyer had brought over. “We’re going to get you some documentation,” Susan Mitchell said gently. “It may not be perfect, but it’ll help. You’re part of this family now.”

Dora tried to focus on the forms-new name, new birthday, new history-but the words swam before her eyes. She realized she couldn’t remember her old signature. She couldn’t even remember how her parents’ handwriting looked.

She excused herself and fled upstairs, locking herself in the bathroom. She stared at her reflection, searching for some trace of the person she used to be. But all she saw was Dora-a girl with wide eyes and trembling hands.

She pressed her forehead to the mirror, willing herself to remember.

Who am I, really? she wondered. If no one remembers me, if there’s no proof I ever existed, am I even real?

The next day, the erasure accelerated.

At the library, Dora tried to log into the computer with her old email address. “Account not found,” the screen blinked. She tried again, and again, but it was gone. She checked the yearbook shelf, searching for her old class photo. The book flipped open to the right year, but her picture was missing-a blank space where her face should have been.

She stumbled out into the sunlight, dizzy.

At the shelter, Mrs. Kowalski waved her over. “Dora, dear, could you help me with the bread?”

Dora nodded, grateful for the distraction. But as they worked, Mrs. Kowalski paused, frowning. “Did you ever tell me where you’re from? I feel like I should know, but-” She shook her head, as if trying to clear a fog.

Dora’s heart pounded. “It’s okay. It’s not important.”

But it was. It was everything.

That evening, Dora sat on the porch with Gail, watching the sun set behind the trees. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and rain.

“I’m scared,” Dora admitted. “I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself. Like the world is erasing me, bit by bit.”

Gail took her hand. “You’re not alone. I remember you. Jay remembers you. My parents remember you. That’s enough.”

Dora shook her head. “But what if it’s not? What if one day, even you forget?”

Gail’s grip tightened. “I won’t. I promise.”

Dora closed her eyes, letting the promise settle over her like a blanket. But the fear lingered.

That night, Dora dreamed of her parents. She stood in the doorway of her childhood home, calling out for them. But when they turned to her, their faces were blank-featureless, unknowing. She reached out, but they faded away, leaving her alone in the empty house.

She woke with tears on her cheeks.

The next morning, Dora found the courage to call her old home number. The phone rang and rang, then a woman answered. “Hello?”

Dora’s breath caught. “Mom?”

A pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“It’s me. It’s-” She tried to say her old name, but it wouldn’t come. The word stuck in her throat, foreign and meaningless.

“I think you have the wrong number,” the woman said gently, and hung up.

Dora stared at the phone, numb.

At the shelter, Pastor Mark cornered her in the hallway. “I’ve spoken to the authorities. There’s no record of you anywhere. No birth certificate, no school files, nothing. Who are you really?”

Dora looked him in the eye, her fear burned away by a sudden, fierce clarity. “I’m Dora. That’s all I know.”

He shook his head, frustrated. “That’s not enough.”

“It has to be,” she whispered.

That afternoon, Dora sat in the garden, the moth stone warm in her hand. Jay joined her, silent.

“Do you think it’s possible to just… vanish?” Dora asked.

Jay thought for a long moment. “Maybe. But I think the people who love you keep you real. Like, as long as someone remembers, you’re still here.”

Dora nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I hope so.”

Jay squeezed her shoulder. “You’re not alone, Dora. Not ever.”

That night, Dora wrote in her notebook, the words shaky but determined:

Today, I felt myself slipping away. The world is forgetting me-my old friends, my family, even the records that proved I ever existed. But I’m still here. I have Gail. I have Jay. I have this new family and this new life. Maybe that’s what matters.

Maybe being real isn’t about the past. Maybe it’s about the people who see you now, who love you now. Maybe I can let go of who I was, and just be Dora.

She closed the notebook, hope flickering in her chest.

She was Dora. She was real. And she would not disappear. Not as long as someone remembered. Not as long as she kept choosing to exist, every single day

Chapter 21: The Mentor

The garden gate creaked on rusted hinges as Dora slipped into the overgrown lot behind the shelter. Moonlight silvered the riot of untamed zinnias and milkweed, their tangled stems bowing under the weight of summer’s last blooms. She clutched the moth stone in her palm, its carved wings biting into her flesh as she knelt beside the compost bin. The stench of decay mingled with the sweetness of rotting peaches-a metaphor she’d have found poetic if her hands weren’t shaking.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Dora startled, nearly dropping the stone. Ms. Elara sat perched on an overturned bucket, her patched raincoat blending with the shadows. The old woman peeled a clementine with hands that seemed both ancient and ageless, the citrus scent cutting through the garden’s musk.

“I’m not Wallace,” Dora blurted, the words sharp with defiance she didn’t feel.

“Aren’t you?” Ms. Elara offered a segment of fruit, the flesh glowing like amber in the dim light. “That boy’s grief still clings to you like burrs to a sweater.”

Dora recoiled. The truth of it stung-the way she still flinched at her reflection in shop windows, the nightmares where Pastor Mark’s voice warped into her father’s. She’d buried Wallace’s journal beneath Gail’s floorboards last week, but its absence haunted her more than its presence ever had.

Ms. Elara rose, her movements fluid despite the cane she leaned on. “Walk with me.”

They wandered rows of sunflowers gone to seed, their heavy heads bowed as if in prayer. The old woman paused to brush a thumb over the scarred stem where someone had snapped off a bloom. “Magic isn’t a wand wave, child. It’s the courage to keep growing when the world wants to prune you.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Dora gestured to her body-the hips that still felt foreign, the voice that sometimes startled her with its lightness. “You turned me into a riddle no one can solve.”

“Riddles have answers.” Ms. Elara pressed a hand to Dora’s chest, where her heart thundered against her ribs. “You’ve been solving this one since the moment you wished yourself into existence.”

A moth drifted past, its wings leaving trails of phosphorescence in the dark. Dora watched it alight on a thistle, remembering the cocoon she’d found in the Mitchells’ garage-papery and fragile, yet impossibly resilient.

“Why make me forget?” The question came out smaller than she intended. “My parents, my school records… it’s like I’m being erased twice.”

Ms. Elara’s gaze sharpened. “Do you miss the boy they loved, or the boy they wanted?”

The words landed like a stone in a still pond. Dora saw her mother’s hands braiding her sister’s hair, her father’s Bible left open to Leviticus. She’d buried Wallace to survive, but the grave kept cracking open.

“Magic demands sacrifice,” Ms. Elara continued, “but you get to choose what you offer. Memories or freedom. Shame or self.”

A rustle in the nearby raspberry bushes made them both turn. Jay emerged, their green hair matted with leaves, a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand. “The hell? I’ve been looking everywhere for-”

They froze, eyes widening as they recognized Ms. Elara. The old woman smiled, extending the remaining clementine segments. “Hungry?”

Jay backed away, their usual swagger replaced by wary curiosity. “You’re that lady from the alley. The one who…” Their gaze flicked to Dora. “Shit. You’re like her, aren’t you? Some kind of fairy godmother?”

Ms. Elara’s laugh sounded like wind through dry grass. “I prefer ‘reluctant midwife to miracles.’”

Dora stepped between them, the moth stone burning in her fist. “What do you want from me?”

“The same thing you wanted when you cupped that dying moth in your hands at age six. The same thing Jay wanted when they stole their first binder.” Ms. Elara’s cane thumped against the compost bin, sending a cloud of fruit flies swirling. “To live without apology.”

The garden seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere beyond the chain-link fence, a car alarm wailed.

Jay broke the silence first. “So give her a magic sword or whatever. Make Pastor Dickhead forget she exists.”

“Power isn’t a weapon-it’s a mirror.” Ms. Elara turned to Dora, her eyes reflecting the moon’s cold fire. “Every time you introduce yourself, every time you stand your ground, you remake the world. That’s the spell.”

Dora thought of Gail’s hand in hers during the board meeting, of Mrs. Kowalski’s flour-dusted hugs. The way Jay had started leaving their art supplies in her locker-a silent claim of belonging.

“And if it’s not enough?” she whispered.

Ms. Elara pressed the clementine peel into Dora’s palm, the oils stinging her skin. “When the frost comes, the trees don’t beg for mercy. They let go.”

The metaphor clicked into place with painful clarity. Dora stared at the decaying fruit in her hand-the perfect spiral of rind, the white pith clinging stubbornly to the flesh.

“You’re asking me to stop fighting.”

“I’m asking you to trust that roots grow deeper when storms try to rip them out.” Ms. Elara nodded toward the shelter, where a light flickered in Pastor Mark’s office window. “That man’s fear is a bonfire, but you…” She touched Dora’s cheek, her fingers surprisingly warm. “You’re the spark that survives the rain.”

A crash echoed from the alley. Jay cursed, scrambling to retrieve their dropped pastry. When Dora turned back, Ms. Elara was gone-only a scattering of moth wings remained, dissolving like ash in the breeze.

“Creepy,” Jay muttered, brushing dirt off their jeans. “But kinda badass.”

Dora pocketed the clementine peel, its citrus scent mixing with the moth stone’s earthy musk. She felt unmoored yet strangely solid, like a sapling finding purchase in cracked concrete.

“Come on.” She nodded toward the shelter’s back entrance. “Mrs. Kowalski’s making pierogis tonight.”

Jay fell into step beside her, their shoulder bumping hers. “You gonna tell Gail about the witch lady?”

“Not yet.” Dora traced the moth stone’s grooves through her pocket lining. “But I think… I think I know what to do.”

As they passed the boarded-up garden gate, Dora paused. Behind the plywood, something green and stubborn pushed through the soil-a zucchini seedling she’d thought long dead. She smiled, and for the first time since her transformation, the expression didn’t feel like a performance.

The miracle wasn’t in the magic. It was in the choosing.

Chapter 22: The Ultimatum

The shelter’s garden gate hung crooked on its hinges, its new padlock glinting under the August sun. Dora knelt in the dirt, her fingers trembling as she tucked basil seedlings into freshly turned soil. The earthy scent usually calmed her, but today it smelled like loss. Behind her, the back door slammed.

“He wants to see you.”

Gail’s voice cracked like dry kindling. Dora turned, wiping her hands on her overalls. Her girlfriend stood framed in the doorway, rainbow-painted nails digging into the doorjamb.

“Now?” Dora’s throat tightened.

“Armed with his little spreadsheet and that fucking cross necklace.” Gail kicked a pebble, sending it skittering across the pavement. “I’ll come with-”

“No.” Dora stood, brushing dirt from her knees. “This is between us.”

The walk to Pastor Mark’s office felt like wading through syrup. Dora counted her steps-seventeen, eighteen, nineteen-each one echoing the shelter’s hidden rhythms: Mrs. Kowalski’s off-key humming in the kitchen, the clatter of chess pieces in the rec room, the soft thump of Jay’s headphones bleeding bass from the supply closet.

Pastor Mark’s door stood ajar. He sat hunched over his desk, sunlight slicing through the blinds to stripe his trembling hands. The family photo-the one with Alex’s shadow still clinging to the torn edge-lay facedown beside a stack of donation reports.

“Close the door.”

Dora obeyed, the click of the latch louder than a gunshot.

“You’ve put me in an impossible position.” He didn’t look up, his finger tracing the spreadsheet’s red-inked totals. “Westfield’s lawyers are threatening to sue for fraud. The city’s auditing our intake records. And you-”

“I didn’t ask for this.” The words tasted like ash.

“No?” His head snapped up, eyes bloodshot. “You waltzed in here with your miracle and your righteous indignation, upending everything! Do you know what happens if we lose funding? Where will Jay sleep? Who’ll pay for Mrs. Kowalski’s insulin?”

Dora gripped the chairback, knuckles bleaching white. “You think I don’t care about them?”

“I think you’re selfish.” He stood abruptly, the chair screeching. “This isn’t some fairytale where courage always wins. Real people suffer when you-”

“When I what?” Heat flooded her veins. “Exist? Take up space? Breathe?”

Pastor Mark flinched. For a heartbeat, she saw it-the boy who’d watched his sibling walk away, the man who’d buried his grief in scripture and spreadsheets. Then his mask snapped back.

“You have one week.” He thrust a folded letter across the desk. “After that, I’ll have no choice but to notify the authorities about your… situation.”

The paper crinkled in Dora’s fist. Outside, a child laughed-Miguel chasing his sister through the hydrangeas.

Gail was waiting by the compost bins, pacing like a caged animal. “Well?”

Dora handed her the letter.

“Cease all volunteer activities pending investigation-are you fucking joking?” Gail’s voice rose, drawing stares from the dining hall windows. “He can’t do this! The board would never-”

“The board follows the money.” Dora pried the letter back, its creases sharp as knife edges. “And we both know where that leads.”

“So that’s it?” Gail grabbed her shoulders. “You’ll just disappear? Let him win?”

“I don’t want to!” Dora shook free, tears blurring the garden into a watercolor smear. “But if staying means the shelter closes… if Jay gets kicked out again… am I worth that?”

Gail opened her mouth, then closed it. The truth hung between them-a barbed wire neither could touch.

They found Jay in the art room, spray-painting a new mural over Pastor Mark’s “Modest Dress Code” poster. The stencil read: NO ANGELS HERE-JUST PEOPLE TRYING.

“Heard the news.” Jay didn’t turn, their voice muffled by the respirator. “Bastard came by earlier sniffing about ‘inappropriate messages.’” They gestured to the half-covered Bible verse on the wall. “Figured I’d redecorate.”

Gail grabbed a can of crimson. “Where’s the black?”

“Gail-” Dora started.

“Nope.” Jay tossed her a mask. “If we’re going down, we’re doing it in glitter.”

Dora watched them work-Gail’s furious slashes of red, Jay’s meticulous feather detailing-until the mural became a phoenix rising from ash-colored verses. Her fingers found the moth stone in her pocket, its wings pressing secrets into her palm.

“We’ll call an emergency board meeting.” Gail stepped back, wiping paint from her cheek. “Mom’s on the finance committee. Dad knows a lawyer who-”

“And say what?” Dora interrupted. “That your homeless girlfriend magically became a girl? That I’m some… some ghost who deserves a seat at the table?”

The silence rang louder than sirens.

Jay ripped off their respirator. “You’re not a ghost. You’re the reason Tomas learned to read. The reason Mrs. K stopped hiding her Polish recipes. The reason I-” Their voice broke. “I stayed.”

Gail reached for her, but Dora stepped back. The garden called to her-the basil needed watering, the zucchini stakes required mending-but when she pushed through the back door, she froze.

The raised beds lay ravaged. Tomato vines hung shredded, their green fruit trampled into the mud. Sunflowers slumped like broken necks, petals scattered like golden tears. In the center of the destruction, a single gardening glove dangled from the fence-fingers stiff with dried cement.

“Oh god.” Gail staggered. “Who would-”

“Westfield’s crew.” Jay knelt, plucking a business card from the soil: Westfield Properties-Building Better Communities. “They’ve been sniffing around for months. Wanted to ‘revitalize’ the block.”

Dora crouched, her hands sifting through the wreckage. Beneath the crushed marigolds, something glinted-Ms. Elara’s moth stone, its wings smeared with mud.

You’re the spark that survives the rain.

The emergency board meeting convened at midnight in the shelter’s storm cellar-Gails idea to avoid Pastor Mark’s spies. Mrs. Kowalski brought pierogis. Jay strung fairy lights through the rafters. A dozen shelter residents crowded onto folding chairs, their faces lit by the glow of Gail’s laptop.

“We have proof.” She clicked through security cam footage-Westfield’s men tearing through the garden, Pastor Mark watching from his office window. “Mark let them in. Probably to scare us off the property before the audit.”

Mrs. Kowalski crossed herself. “Judas.”

“We take this public.” Jay projected a tweet draft: @NewHopeShelter director colludes with developer to destroy community garden. “Go viral by morning.”

“And then what?” An elderly vet leaned forward, his wheelchair squeaking. “They shut us down faster?”

“We fight.” Gail’s eyes burned. “Occupations, petitions, hunger strikes if we have to. This place isn’t just walls-it’s us.”

All eyes turned to Dora.

She stood, the moth stone warm in her fist. “When I came here, I thought magic meant getting everything I wanted. But real magic…” She looked at Gail’s paint-stained hands, Jay’s defiant stencil, Mrs. Kowalski’s flour-dusted rosary. “Real magic is choosing to care when the world tells you not to.”

The vote was unanimous.

At dawn, they gathered in the ruined garden. Dora pressed Ms. Elara’s stone into the soil where the basil had grown. Gail wired speakers to the fire escape. Jay distributed pots and pans from the kitchen.

When Pastor Mark arrived, clipboard in hand, he found the gates flung wide. A banner hung where his “Modest Dress Code” poster had been: NO ANGELS HERE-JUST PEOPLE TRYING.

“This ends now.” His voice shook. “I’ll call the police.”

Dora stepped forward, Miguel’s hand in hers. “Call them.”

As sirens wailed in the distance, she lifted the bullhorn. Her voice, when it came, didn’t tremble.

“My name is Dora. I have no papers, no past, no power. But I have this place. These people. And we’re not leaving.”

Somewhere in the crowd, a pot clanged. Then another. The rhythm spread-spoons on buckets, feet stomping pavement-until the street throbbed with the sound of resistance.

Pastor Mark paled. For the first time, Dora saw fear in his eyes-not of her, but of the truth taking root.

The riot would make headlines. The police would make arrests. But in this moment, as the sunrise gilded broken sunflowers, Dora understood the magic Ms. Elara had spoken of-not transformation, but persistence.

She raised her fist, and the shelter roared.

Chapter 23: The Rally

Dawn seeped through the shelter’s grimy windows, painting the dining hall in shades of bruised purple and gold. Dora stood on a folding chair, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the banner above the entrance. The letters, cut from old donation boxes and painted in Gail’s riotous rainbow hues, read: WE BELONG TO EACH OTHER. Below, a smaller sign in Jay’s jagged script warned: PASTORS MAY COME, BUT LOVE STAYS.

“Tilt the ‘R’ up,” Gail called from across the room, where she was stacking milk crates into a makeshift stage. “It’s looking a little apocalyptic.”

Dora fiddled with the crooked letter, her gaze drifting to the family photo wall-new Polaroids of shelter residents hugging, laughing, holding handmade signs for today’s protest. Her throat tightened. Last night, they’d gathered in the rec room, cutting stencils and sharing stories. Mrs. Kowalski had brought her late husband’s sewing shears to trim poster board, her hands steady as she recounted fleeing Poland in ’81. “We carried banners then too,” she’d said, pressing a cup of chamomile into Dora’s hands. “Words matter, mój mały ptaku. Even when they shake.”

Now, the shelter hummed with purpose. Jay wheeled in a shopping cart full of sunflowers plucked from the garden, their petals still dewy. “Floral rebellion,” they announced, tucking a bloom behind Dora’s ear. “Eat your heart out, Westfield.”

Dora forced a smile, but her pulse thrummed like power lines before a storm. She’d spent the night drafting speeches in her notebook, each version more desperate than the last. How do you explain existing? she’d scrawled, the pen nearly tearing through the page. How do you prove you’re real?

By midmorning, the crowd swelled beyond the shelter’s gates. Teenagers from the LGBTQ youth group waved hand-painted flags, their laughter cutting through the tension. Elderly regulars occupied folding chairs, their signs propped on walkers: DORA STAYS in wobbly block letters. Even Miguel’s abuela had come, her chanclas tapping out a furious rhythm as she directed traffic.

Gail climbed onto the milk crate stage, her megaphone screeching feedback. “They want us divided? We show them united!” The cheer that followed shook the sidewalk.

Dora lingered by the hydrangeas, their petals trampled from last week’s confrontation with Westfield’s men. She’d replanted them at dawn, fingers clawing through soil still stinking of gasoline. Now, their bruised stems stood defiant-a quiet counterpoint to the chaos.

“You’re supposed to be the star, you know.” Jay appeared beside her, holding two cups of Mrs. Kowalski’s infamous beetroot lemonade. “Not the stagehand.”

“What if I mess up?” Dora whispered. The notebook in her back pocket felt like a brick.

Jay shrugged. “Then we mess up together. That’s what family does.”

The first counter-protesters arrived at noon-a handful of men in ill-fitting suits, their signs generic (“PROTECT OUR VALUES”) but their eyes sharp as switchblades. Dora recognized Mr. Westfield’s lawyer among them, snapping photos with a phone sleek enough to fund the shelter’s kitchen for a month.

Pastor Mark emerged from his office, his tie knotted too tight. For a heartbeat, Dora saw the boy he’d been-the one who’d watched his sibling walk away, the one who’d chosen fear over love. Then his mask slid into place.

“This is a house of God,” he boomed, though his voice cracked on the last word. “Not a circus!”

Mrs. Kowalski stepped forward, her flour-dusted apron fluttering. “And what does your God say about chasing children into alleys, hm? About locking doors instead of opening hearts?”

The crowd murmured. Miguel’s abuela began a hymn in Spanish, her voice raspy but unwavering. Others joined-a harmony of accents and off-key courage that drowned out the pastor’s spluttering.

Gail grabbed Dora’s wrist. “It’s time.”

The milk crate stage wobbled under Dora’s feet. She stared at the sea of faces-the trans teen who’d taught her chess, the veteran who shared his nicotine gum, the single mom who’d tucked a wildflower into her hair that first terrifying week. Her mouth went cotton-dry.

Then Jay climbed up beside her, their green hair blazing in the sunlight. “Most of you know me as the shelter’s resident anarchist,” they began, earning scattered laughs. “But today? I’m just a kid who finally found home.” They turned to Dora, their voice softening. “She’s not a project or a problem. She’s the reason I’m still here. The reason any of us believe change is possible.”

A sign bobbed near the front: DORA = FAMILY in Miguel’s crayon scrawl. Dora’s vision blurred.

“They tried to erase her,” Jay continued, louder now. “But you can’t erase love! You can’t padlock the fucking future!”

The cheer was thunder. Gail squeezed Dora’s hand, her palm sweaty but sure.

Dora unfolded her notebook, the pages damp with nervous sweat. The speech she’d written-about justice, about belonging-suddenly felt hollow. She looked up, meeting Pastor Mark’s gaze across the parking lot.

“I’m not Wallace,” she said, the megaphone trembling. “But I’m not just Dora either.” A deep breath. “I’m the kid who shares their last granola bar. The volunteer who stays late to listen. I’m…” Her voice broke. “I’m what happens when we choose each other.”

Miguel’s abuela whooped. Someone blew a kazoo.

“They say I don’t exist on paper.” Dora pulled the moth stone from her pocket, its wings catching the light. “But papers burn. Stories?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Stories stay.”

The crowd erupted. Signs became drumsticks on dumpster lids. Jay leapt off the stage, leading a conga line past the stunned counter-protesters. Even Mrs. Kowalski swayed, her eyes closed and arms raised like she was sixteen again, dancing in a Warsaw square.

Pastor Mark approached as the sun dipped below the roofline. His shadow stretched long and thin, nearly touching Dora’s sneakers.

“This won’t change anything,” he said quietly. “The board meets tomorrow. Westfield’s lawyers-”

“Are welcome to subpoena my diary.” Dora held his gaze. “Page one says, Today, I learned hope is a verb.”

He flinched. For a heartbeat, she saw it-the ghost of Alex in the tilt of his chin, the tremor of a brother who’d loved and lost. Then he turned, his polished shoes clicking a retreat.

They lit candles as night fell, the flames reflected in a hundred tear-streaked faces. Gail rested her head on Dora’s shoulder, their linked hands glowing in the flickering light.

“You were amazing,” Gail murmured.

Dora watched a moth orbit the nearest candle-its wings pale gold, its path unwavering. “We all were.”

In her pocket, the stone pulsed once, warm as a heartbeat.

Somewhere down the block, a car alarm wailed. The crowd cheered, turning discord into music. Dora closed her eyes and let the noise wash over her-a symphony of belonging, louder than any doubt.

Chapter 24: The Breaking Point

The shelter’s attic storage room smelled of mothballs and forgotten things. Dora knelt between boxes labeled Christmas Decorations ‘08 and VBS Craft Supplies, her hands trembling as she stuffed a duffel bag with protein bars and Gails spare hoodie. Moonlight bled through the single grime-caked window, casting jagged shadows across the floorboards. Somewhere below, a pipe clanged-the building’s old bones settling-and she froze, half-expecting Pastor Mark’s footsteps on the stairs.

Three hours earlier

The community center’s fluorescent lights had hummed like a hive as Dora stood before the town council, her notecards damp with sweat. Gail’s parents flanked her-Robert’s hand a steady weight on her shoulder, Susan’s perfume a citrus shield against the stares.

“Miss Dora,” Councilwoman Patel began, adjusting her glasses. “You’ve petitioned to address the shelter’s funding cuts. You have three minutes.”

Dora’s mouth went cotton-dry. She gripped the podium, her reflection warped in its brass surface-a girl made of fragments. Behind her, Pastor Mark’s cologne invaded her senses.

“The shelter isn’t just beds and soup,” she started, voice wavering. “It’s where Jay learned to trust again. Where Mrs. Kowalski teaches kids to knead dough instead of fear. Where-”

“Forgive me,” interrupted Mr. Westfield from the front row. He didn’t stand, didn’t raise his voice. “But shouldn’t we focus on legitimate concerns? This... person can’t even prove she exists.”

The room erupted. Gail shot up, her chair screeching. “She’s right here!”

Councilwoman Patel banged her gavel. “Order!”

Dora’s vision tunneled. She saw it then-the future unspooling like rotten thread. Pastor Mark’s resignation. The shelter’s gates chained shut. Gail’s family bankrupt from legal fees.

She ran.

Now, crammed between boxes of tinsel and guilt, Dora unearthed her final artifact-Wallace’s old pocketknife, rusted shut. She’d buried it here weeks ago, a makeshift grave for the boy she’d mourned. The blade refused to open, fused by time and saltwater tears.

“You’re better at goodbyes than I am.”

Dora whirled. Jay leaned in the doorway, backlit by the hall’s sickly glow. Their new septum ring caught the moonlight-a gift from Gail after the protest arrests.

“How’d you find me?” Dora whispered.

Jay tossed an apple core into the shadows. “You left your phone charging in the kitchen. Saw the bus schedule tab open.” They stepped inside, Doc Martens crunching ancient glitter. “Portland? Really? You’d last ten minutes before adopting some alley cats and starting a community garden.”

Dora hugged the duffel to her chest. “He’s going to destroy them, Jay. Gail’s parents, the shelter... I’m the grenade no one sees until it’s too late.”

Jay knelt, their knees popping. “Remember when you taught Miguel to read? His mom said you ‘walked in with patience and left with apple sauce in your hair.’” They flicked the pocketknife. “This isn’t you. The girl I know fights for apple sauce moments.”

“The girl you know is a ghost!” Dora’s voice cracked. “I don’t even have a library card, Jay. Every ID the Mitchells fake for me, Westfield tears apart. I’m a... a rumor with anxiety!”

Silence pooled between them. Somewhere, a mouse scrabbled through insulation.

Jay stood abruptly. “Then be a rumor that haunts his ass.” They extended a hand. “C’mon. Gail’s losing her mind at the bus station.”

The 11:15 to Portland idled at the curb, exhaust curling into the autumn chill. Dora hovered beneath the flickering departures board, her duffel lighter than her bones.

Gail found her by the vending machines, cheeks flushed from running.

“You were just going to leave?” Her voice splintered on the last word. “No note? No ‘thanks for the memories’?”

Dora traced a crack in the linoleum. “Your parents’ savings... the lawsuit...”

“We knew the risks!” Gail stepped closer, the moth stone swinging from her neck-Dora’s goodbye gift left on her pillow. “You don’t get to martyr yourself because some rich bigot-”

“It’s not just him!” Dora’s shout echoed through the empty station. A janitor glanced over, then wisely looked away. “Every day I wake up terrified I’ll flicker out. That you’ll look at me and see nothing.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I can’t lose you too.”

Gail’s resolve crumpled. She cupped Dora’s face, thumbs brushing the tears neither had acknowledged. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Gail’s lips found hers-soft, desperate, a live wire grounding them both. When they broke apart, her forehead rested against Dora’s. “Stay. Please.”

The bus doors hissed open.

Dora’s fingers interlaced with Gail’s as they walked home, the duffel abandoned in a trash can. Past the shuttered bakery. Past the park where they’d kissed under fireworks. Past the shelter’s darkened windows.

In the Mitchells’ driveway, Dora froze. Ms. Elara sat on the porch swing, her braid silver in the security light.

“You.” Dora’s voice shook. “Did you know? When you changed me-did you know I’d have to choose between existing and belonging?”

The old woman stood, joints creaking. “Child, magic doesn’t create courage. It reveals it.” She pressed something into Dora’s palm-a seedpod, brittle and star-shaped. “Some roots grow deeper when storms try to rip them out.”

Dora uncurled her fingers. The pod burst, scattering winged seeds across the lawn.

At dawn, they found Pastor Mark in the shelter’s garden. He knelt among frost-killed zinnias, a trowel dangling from his hand. The Westfield Properties sign lay shattered by the compost bin.

Dora stepped over the debris. “We’re reopening the garden today. Need help pulling weeds?”

He didn’t look up. “Why aren’t you gone?”

“Turns out I’m stubborn.” She offered a seedling-tomato, heirloom, saved from the first harvest. “Jay’s making signs. Gail’s rallying the volunteers. Even Mrs. Kowalski’s baking ‘protest pierogis.’”

Pastor Mark stared at the plant, his reflection warped in the trowel’s blade. “I used to help my sister grow cosmos. She’d name each one-Sirius, Andromeda...” His throat worked. “After Dad kicked her out, I salted the earth.”

Dora knelt, frost seeping through her jeans. “Seeds don’t care about yesterday’s storms.”

Somewhere, a cardinal sang-one clear note piercing the morning. Pastor Mark took the seedling.

Together, they broke ground.

Chapter 25: The Revelation

The garden’s compost bin reeked of rot and rebirth. Dora knelt beside it, her fingers buried in the damp remains of last week’s zucchini harvest, the moth stone burning a hole in her overalls. Above her, the shelter’s new security lights cast harsh rectangles across the ravaged plots-tomato vines uprooted, sunflower stalks snapped like broken ribs. Somewhere in the alley, a raccoon rustled through trash bags, its nocturnal scavenging a mirror to her own desperate searching.

“You’ve been digging in the wrong soil.”

Ms. Elara’s voice sliced through the humidity. Dora startled, sending a clump of coffee grounds tumbling from her palm. The old woman stood framed by the garden gate, her patched raincoat blending with the shadows, a living bruise against the sodium-vapor glow.

“What do you want?” Dora wiped her hands on her thighs, leaving earthy smears. “Another cryptic warning? Another stone?”

Ms. Elara stepped into the moonlight, her braid unraveling at the ends. “You think me cruel for erasing your past. But tell me-when you cup a dying moth in your hands, do you mourn the caterpillar it once was?”

Dora stood, anger tightening her throat. “I’m not some fucking metaphor. I’m real. These people-” she gestured to the shelter’s boarded windows, “-they’re real. And we’re losing everything because of your ‘gift.’”

The old woman’s laughter sounded like wind through dry cornstalks. “Child, I gave no gift. Only an echo.” She pressed a gnarled hand to Dora’s chest, where her heart thundered. “This is your magic. The choice to keep loving when the world says stop.”

Three hours earlier

The shelter’s conference room had become a courtroom. Dora sat between Gail and Jay, their knees brushing in silent solidarity as Pastor Mark presented spreadsheets to the board members-red ink bleeding from the “Community Garden” column.

“-annual savings of $8,700 if we convert the space to storage,” Pastor Mark concluded, avoiding Dora’s gaze.

Mrs. Kowalski’s arthritis-swollen hand shot up. “And what of the children? The veterans who tend those plots? You’d trade their peace for shelving units?”

Mr. Westfield cleared his throat from the Zoom screen dominating the wall. “Peace doesn’t pay the electric bill. My foundation requires fiscal responsibility.”

Gail stood, her rainbow-painted nails gripping the table. “Responsibility to who? The donors or the people you’re supposed to serve?”

“Enough!” Pastor Mark’s fist hit the table. “Miss Mitchell, if you can’t respect-”

“Respect?” Jay’s chair screeched as they rose. “You wanna talk respect? Dora’s out there every day teaching Miguel to read while you lick Westfield’s boots. Who’s really upholding values here?”

The board erupted. Dora fled, the moth stone searing her thigh with every step.

Now, in the ruined garden, Ms. Elara pressed a dried poppy pod into Dora’s palm. “The strongest magic grows in cracks.”

Dora crushed the pod, releasing a cloud of seeds. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one they’re erasing.”

“Aren’t I?” Ms. Elara’s form flickered-a teenage soldier gripping a protest sign, an elderly woman burning sage at a pipeline blockade, a nonbinary teen stitching their chosen name into a jacket. “Every act of courage leaves echoes. You think your Wallace is gone? He’s here.” She tapped Dora’s sternum. “In every kindness you learned by surviving him.”

Somewhere in the shelter, a child wailed-Miguel, nightmares again. Dora turned toward the sound instinctively.

“They need you,” Ms. Elara murmured. “Not the girl you became, but the choice you keep making to stay.”

The family room’s nightlight cast dinosaur shadows on the walls. Miguel clung to Dora, his tears dampening her collar. “The monster… in the garden…”

“Shh, mijo.” She rocked him, humming the lullaby Mrs. Kowalski had taught her. “Monsters hate brave kids. Want to see a trick?”

She opened her palm, revealing the moth stone. In the dim light, its carved wings seemed to flutter. Miguel’s breath hitched. “Magic?”

“Better.” Dora pressed the stone to his small hand. “Love that outlasts fear.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Pastor Mark stood frozen in the doorway, his face illuminated by the nightlight’s glow. In his hands-a blanket.

Dora met his gaze, still rocking Miguel. “He thought the compost bin was a monster.”

Pastor Mark’s throat worked. “I… the board meeting…”

Miguel peered up, trusting and sleep-soft. “Pastor Mark? You fight monsters too?”

The blanket slipped from his hands. For a heartbeat, Dora saw him-not the enforcer of Westfield’s edicts, but the boy who’d once hidden his sibling’s journals under floorboards.

“Sometimes,” he rasped. “Not well enough.”

Dawn found Dora pruning dead leaves from the garden’s surviving sunflowers. Gail joined her, wordlessly handing over a steaming mug. They worked in silence until Jay appeared, their arms full of spray-painted planks.

“Salvaged from the dumpster.” They dropped the boards with a clatter. “New raised beds?”

Dora traced the graffiti-RESIST in jagged letters. “Westfield’s men will just tear them out.”

Gail squeezed her shoulder. “Then we’ll rebuild. Every damn time.”

Ms. Elara’s voice whispered through the dandelions: The deepest roots withstand the harshest storms.

As the shelter woke around them-Mrs. Kowalski’s hymn drifting from the kitchen, Miguel’s laughter chasing a stray cat-Dora pressed her palm to the soil and chose, again, to grow.

Chapter 26: The Blueprint

The shelter’s rec room hummed with the low buzz of a single flickering fluorescent light. Dora stood at the center of a circle of mismatched chairs, her fingers tracing the edges of the moth stone in her pocket. The air smelled of stale coffee and the faint tang of spray paint from Jay’s latest mural-a phoenix rising from ashes that now seemed painfully prophetic. Around her, the shelter’s residents and volunteers leaned forward in their seats, their faces a mosaic of exhaustion and resolve.

Gail broke the silence first, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Westfield wants us gone. Pastor Mark’s letting him bulldoze the garden tomorrow. So we fight back-harder.”

Mrs. Kowalski nodded, her knuckles white around a wooden spoon she’d brought from the kitchen. “In ’80, we baked bread in church basements and passed messages in hymn books. The secret?” She tapped her temple. “Make them think you’re everywhere at once.”

Jay slouched in their chair, green hair catching the dim light as they spun a can of spray paint between their fingers. “I say we turn the garden into a canvas. Paint the whole damn lot with their faces-Westfield, Pastor Dickhead-make it a monument to corporate greed.”

Dora’s chest tightened. She glanced at the boarded windows, remembering the way the sunflowers had bent toward the light just days ago. “We need something they can’t ignore. Something that shows what this place really means.”

A hand rose near the back-Miguel’s mother, her toddler asleep against her shoulder. “Last winter, we slept in a bus station. My baby got pneumonia.” Her voice wavered. “This place gave us medicine. Let me tell that story.”

One by one, voices joined the chorus:

-A veteran with tremors describing how Dora had steadied his hands to plant tomatoes.
-A transgender teen who’d used the shelter’s address to enroll in school.
-Mrs. Kowalski’s raspy confession: “After my Jan died, I wanted to lie down too. These kids-” she gestured at Dora and Gail, “-they gave me reasons to rise.”

Gail began scribbling notes on the back of a donated pizza box. “We document everything. Videos, testimonials, the works. Hit social media, tag news outlets. Make Westfield the villain.”

“And when they send cops?” Jay challenged, their spray paint can clinking against the floor.

Mrs. Kowalski hefted her spoon like a scepter. “My babcia stood against tanks with a loaf of rye. We stand with casseroles.”

Dora felt the moth stone grow warm. She stepped into the center of the circle, the carved wings pressing into her palm. “We rebuild the garden tonight. Every plant, every seed. Then we guard it.”

The moon hung low as they gathered in the alley-Dora, Gail, Jay, and a dozen residents carrying shovels fashioned from donated kitchenware. The garden’s chain-link fence glinted under the streetlights, the new padlock gleaming like a challenge.

Jay snorted. “Watch and learn.” They pulled a hairpin from their beanie and jimmied the lock with practiced ease. It sprang open with a click. “Perks of being a delinquent.”

They worked in shifts under the cover of darkness:

-Teens digging furrows with serving spoons.
-Elders pressing seeds into soil still stinking of gasoline.
-Dora on her knees, replanting crushed marigolds as Gail filmed her whispered narration: “This is where Miguel learned butterflies come from…”

As dawn approached, Jay scaled the fence with a ladder made of soup cans. Their spray paint hissed across the plywood covering Westfield’s demolition notice:

YOU CAN’T UPROOT US

Pastor Mark found them at sunrise. He stood at the garden’s edge, his shadow stretching over the resurrected beds. Dora watched his gaze catch on the sunflowers-staked with broom handles now, their stems bandaged with gauze from the shelter’s first-aid kit.

“This is foolish,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Dora wiped dirt from her hands. “You stood here once, didn’t you? With Alex.”

He flinched.

“Ms. Elara told me,” she pressed. “They loved cosmos. Named each one after stars.”

Pastor Mark’s throat worked. He reached for a blossom, its petals still bruised. “They wanted to study botany. My father said it was a phase.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as a moth’s wing.

By noon, the shelter’s Wi-Fi hummed with uploads:

-Miguel’s laughter as he watered seedlings.
-The veteran’s tremor-free hands arranging donated tools.
-A time-lapse of the garden’s rebirth, set to Jay’s gritty guitar cover of “Rise Up.”

Gail refreshed the hashtag every thirty seconds: #ThisPlaceGrows trended county-wide by sunset.

That night, Dora found Jay painting a new mural on the shelter’s exterior wall-a towering dandelion, its seeds scattering into constellations.

“Westfield’s lawyers sent a cease-and-desist,” Jay said without turning. “Pastor Mark’s freaking out in his office.”

Dora touched the moth stone. “Will you add something for me?”

They handed her a can of gold spray paint.

Her hand shook as she outlined wings beside the dandelion-clumsy, asymmetrical, alive.

Jay smirked. “Needs work.”

“So do I,” Dora whispered.

They painted in silence until the streetlights buzzed to life, their shadows merging on the wall-a girl and a phoenix, stubbornly in bloom.

Chapter 27: The Confrontation

The shelter’s chapel was never used for services anymore-its pews stacked with canned goods, its pulpit repurposed as a sorting table for winter coats. But tonight, the room hummed with a different kind of congregation. Dora stood at the center, flanked by Gail and Jay, their shadows stretching long under the flickering fluorescents. The air smelled of dust and resolve.

Pastor Mark entered last, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood like a metronome counting down to disaster. He paused at the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the assembled volunteers and guests-Mrs. Kowalski gripping her rosary, Miguel’s mother bouncing her toddler on one hip, a dozen faces usually fragmented by survival now united in rare solidarity.

“This is inappropriate,” he began, adjusting his tie. “The board-”

“We’re the board tonight,” Gail interrupted, stepping forward. Her rainbow-painted nails tapped against a binder full of signatures-petitions from shelter residents, letters from local LGBTQ+ groups, Polaroids of the garden’s first harvest. “These people are the shelter. And they want answers.”

Dora’s palms slicked with sweat. The moth stone in her pocket felt heavier than ever, its carved wings pressing into her thigh like a reminder: This is why you exist. She glanced at Jay, who gave her a nearly imperceptible nod.

Pastor Mark’s laugh was a dry crackle. “Answers? About what? Our budget shortfalls? The vandalism?” His eyes locked onto Dora. “Or your little crusade to undermine everything we’ve built here?”

“We built this!” A voice rang out from the back-Mr. Ruiz, the Vietnam vet who taught chess in the rec room. “You just sign the checks.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Dora felt the energy shift, the room tilting on an axis of long-suppressed truths. She unclenched her fists.

“You’re afraid of me,” she said, quiet but clear.

Pastor Mark froze. The accusation hung in the air, sharper than the scripture quotes plastered on the walls.

“Don’t be absurd.” He forced a smile, the kind reserved for difficult donors. “I’m trying to protect this community.”

“From what?” Dora’s voice rose. “From kids needing pronouns respected? From gardens growing where you’d rather pave parking lots?” She moved closer, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. “From me existing without permission?”

The room held its breath. Somewhere, a pipe clanged in the walls.

Pastor Mark’s composure fractured. “You waltz in here with no history, no accountability-playing house with the Mitchells, corrupting Gail-”

“Enough.” Gail’s shout echoed off the stained glass. She thrust the binder at him, photos spilling out-Dora reading to Miguel, Jay planting marigolds, the protest signs painted in the courtyard. “This is what corruption looks like? People caring for each other?”

Pastor Mark batted the binder away. It hit the floor with a slap, papers scattering like wounded birds. “You think this is a game? Without Westfield’s funding, we lose the pediatric clinic. The addiction counseling. Where will your precious community be then?”

Dora knelt to gather the photos. Her fingers trembled as she picked up a snapshot of Alex-Pastor Mark’s sibling, cropped out of the family portrait but preserved in the shelter’s old volunteer records. Gail had found it buried in a supply closet.

“You’ve done this before,” Dora said softly, holding up the photo. “Cut someone out to please a donor.”

The color drained from Pastor Mark’s face. For a heartbeat, Dora saw the boy he’d been-the one who’d hidden his sister’s journals under floorboards, who’d lied to their parents about her whereabouts long after she’d fled.

“You don’t know anything about my family,” he whispered.

“I know you loved them.” Dora stood, the photo a bridge between them. “And you think if you erase everyone like them-like me-you’ll finally stop hurting.”

A chair screeched as Mrs. Kowalski stood. “My babcia hid Jews in her cellar. When the Nazis came, she told them, ‘You’ll have to burn the whole village to find one good soul.’” Her knotted hands gripped the pew. “Be better than those men, Pastor.”

The room seemed to contract-the walls pressing in, the dusty cross above the pulpit tilting askew. Pastor Mark backed toward the door, his polished facade crumbling.

“You want to destroy this place?” His voice broke. “Fine. But don’t pretend it’s noble.”

Dora blocked his exit, smaller but unyielding. “You’re the one holding the matches.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-grief, or maybe recognition. Then it hardened. “Get out of my way.”

“No.”

The standoff stretched, taut and quivering. Outside, thunder growled-the first drops of rain pinging against barred windows.

It was Jay who broke the silence. They stepped forward, their green hair glowing faintly in the dim light. “You kicked me out last week for using the ‘wrong’ bathroom. Know where I slept?” They tossed a key onto the floor-the spare to Gails garage apartment. “Turns out Dora’s better at sheltering people than you’ll ever be.”

The accusation landed like a stone. Pastor Mark looked at the key, then at Dora, then at the photo of Alex still clutched in her hand. His shoulders sagged.

“Get out,” he repeated, but the fury had bled out, leaving only exhaustion.

Dora didn’t move. “We’re not leaving. And neither are you.”

“What?”

“You’re coming to the town hall tomorrow.” Gail scooped up the binder, her voice steadier now. “To hear what these people really need. Not what Westfield wants them to need.”

Pastor Mark barked a laugh. “And if I refuse?”

Dora reached into her pocket, pressing the moth stone into his palm. Its wings bit into his skin. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what this place could’ve been if you’d actually listened to it.”

He stared at the stone, his breathing shallow. The rain intensified, drumming a chaotic rhythm on the roof.

“Get out,” he said a third time, but when Dora turned to leave, he caught her wrist. “Not you.” He nodded to the others. “Them.”

Gail hesitated, but Dora nodded. The room emptied slowly-Mrs. Kowalski pausing to squeeze Dora’s shoulder, Jay flipping Pastor Mark off with a shaky grin.

When the door closed, Pastor Mark sank into a pew. “She wanted to study botany,” he said hoarsely. “Alex. They’d smuggled college brochures under their mattress.”

Dora sat beside him, the moth stone between them. “What happened?”

“I told my father.” His thumb rubbed the photo’s ragged edge. “I thought… I thought he’d help them. Instead, he called it a phase. Burned their journals.” He looked at Dora, really looked at her, for the first time. “You’re not a phase, are you?”

“No.”

He nodded, tears cutting through the dust on his cheeks. “Then God help us both.”

Outside, the storm broke in earnest. Dora left him there-weeping, praying, or maybe finally listening-and stepped into the rain. Gail waited under the awning, her arms open.

“What now?” she asked, holding Dora close.

Dora watched the downpour erase the chalk protest slogans from the sidewalk. “Now we rebuild.”

Somewhere in the dark, a moth beat its wings against a streetlight, persistent and unafraid.

Chapter 28: The Hearing

The shelter's conference room had never felt smaller. Folding chairs scraped against linoleum as board members shuffled papers, their faces illuminated by the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. Dora sat between Gail and Mrs. Kowalski, her fingers tracing the moth stone's wings through her pocket lining. Across the table, Pastor Mark stared at his folded hands, the family photo with Alex's torn edge peeking from his breast pocket.

Jay slipped into the seat behind them, reeking of spray paint and nervous sweat. "They added three new locks to the garden gate last night," they whispered. "Bastard's scared of dandelions."

Councilwoman Patel tapped her gavel. "This emergency session will address leadership concerns at New Hope Shelter. Reverend Mark, you're first."

Pastor Mark stood, his chair screeching. "For fifteen years, I've upheld this institution's values-"

"Which values?" Mrs. Kowalski muttered, loud enough to ripple through the room.

"-but recent events have strained our resources." His gaze flicked to Dora. "We must prioritize stability over...experimentation."

Gail's pen snapped. "He means targeting Dora because she's trans."

"Order!" Councilwoman Patel warned.

Dora stood, her knees trembling. "May I speak?"

The room stilled. Even the HVAC's rattle seemed to pause.

Three hours earlier

Dora had found the box buried in the shelter's attic-Alex's box. Faded Polaroids showed a teenager with Pastor Mark's chin and Dora's defiant smile, their Doc Martens kicked up on a church pew. Newspaper clippings chronicled disappearances: Local Teen Vanishes After Family Dispute (1998), Pride Rally Organizer Missing (2003). At the bottom, a postcard from Albuquerque: Tell Mom I'm sorry about her good saucepan. -A

Gail peered over her shoulder. "Holy shit. He's been searching for them."

"Not searching." Dora ran her thumb over Alex's face, preserved under peeling laminate. "Hiding."

Now, Dora laid the box on the conference table. Pastor Mark paled.

"This shelter isn't about your values," she said. "It's about the people you've failed."

She passed around Alex's photos-the cropped family portrait, the protest signs, the postcard. Board members shifted uncomfortably as the evidence circulated.

"Alex needed sanctuary," Dora continued. "You built walls instead."

Pastor Mark's knuckles whitened. "You don't understand-"

"I understand fear." Dora met his gaze. "But love isn't a liability. It's the foundation you abandoned."

Mrs. Kowalski stood, arthritis cream glistening on her knuckles. "My babcia hid Jews in her root cellar. You think Nazis cared about her paperwork?" She slammed a jar of homemade sauerkraut on the table. "This place either shelters people or it doesn't."

One by one, residents rose-a trans teen clutching hormone pills, a veteran with service dog, Miguel's mother with his IEP paperwork. Their testimonies wove together-a tapestry of small salvations: Doras bedtime stories, Jays mural, the zucchini plant that survived three frosts.

Councilwoman Patel removed her glasses. "Reverend Mark, this board moves to-"

"Wait." Dora's voice cut through the murmurs. "I propose a leave of absence. For reflection."

Gail gripped her arm. "Are you nuts? He'll come back worse!"

Dora touched the moth stone. "Or he'll finally see."

Flashback: 1998

Young Mark pressed his ear to the heating vent, Alex's voice drifting upstairs.

"-can't stay, Allie. Dad'll kill you."

"Then come with me."

Their Doc Martens squeaked toward the door. Mark's baseball trophy dug into his palm.

"Be safe," he whispered as the screen door slammed.

Pastor Mark stood slowly, Alex's postcard trembling in his hand. "I resign effective immediately."

The room erupted.

"Quiet!" Councilwoman Patel banged her gavel. "Reverend, if this is coercion-"

"It's penance." He looked at Dora, tears cutting through his stoicism. "You've shown more courage in three months than I have in thirty years."

As he left, Dora pressed the moth stone into his palm. "Tell Alex the garden gate's always open."

That night, the shelter hosted an impromptu potluck. Jay projected But I'm a Cheerleader onto the garden wall, its colors bleeding into the fireflies' dance. Dora leaned against Gail, their hands intertwined under a shared blanket.

"Think he'll actually find them?" Gail nodded toward Pastor Mark's car disappearing down the highway.

Dora watched a moth batter itself against the projector light. "Some roots grow deeper after the storm."

As the credits rolled, Mrs. Kowalski passed around Alex's sauerkraut. The tang of survival lingered on every tongue-a promise, a warning, a beginning.

Chapter 29: The Dream

Dora woke to the sound of her own heartbeat-a frantic, syncopated rhythm that echoed in the stillness of the Mitchells’ guest room. Moonlight pooled on the floorboards, casting skeletal shadows from the oak tree outside. She sat up, gripping the moth stone until its carved wings bit into her palm. The dream clung to her like cobwebs-her mother’s voice, distorted and watery, calling a name that no longer belonged to her.

The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and regret. Dora’s mother stood at the stove, her floral apron crisp and unfamiliar. Wallace’s childhood drawings-smeared crayon landscapes-still hung on the refrigerator, held by strawberry-shaped magnets. “Mom?” Dora whispered. Her mother turned, spatula in hand, eyes sliding over her like water over glass. “Have you seen Wallace? He’s late for church again.”

Dora reached for her, fingers passing through the sleeve of her mother’s robe as if through smoke. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her father appeared in the doorway, Bible tucked under his arm. “Who’s this?” he asked, nodding toward Dora. Her mother shrugged. “Some girl from the shelter, I think. Pastor Mark mentioned her.”

The walls began to dissolve-wallpaper curling into ash, family photos bleeding colorless. Dora stumbled backward, clutching a fading snapshot of her sister’s graduation. “Wait! Please-”

Her father’s voice boomed through the disintegrating house. “We’re praying for Wallace. He’s lost his way.”

Gail found her in the garden at dawn, knees buried in the soil, uprooting dandelions with trembling hands. The shelters’ raised beds lay behind them, their new latticework still smelling of fresh-cut pine.

“Bad night?” Gail asked, kneeling beside her.

Dora tossed a clump of weeds into the compost bin. “They didn’t recognize me. In the dream, I mean. My parents… they asked if I’d seen Wallace.”

Gail stilled. “Do you miss them? Even after everything?”

Dora sifted soil through her fingers, watching earthworms twist toward the light. “I miss the idea of them. The parents they could’ve been.”

A mourning dove called from the oak tree. Gail brushed dirt from Dora’s cheek, her touch lingering. “You’re allowed to grieve, you know. Even if they don’t deserve it.”

Mrs. Kowalski intercepted them in the kitchen, her arms full of zucchini. “Early harvest,” she announced, dumping the vegetables onto the counter. “The aphids are winning, but we’ll outlast them.” She paused, squinting at Dora. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mój ptaku.”

“Just tired,” Dora lied, scrubbing her hands at the sink.

The old woman hummed, unconvinced. She pressed a warm scone into Dora’s palm-raspberry, with a dusting of sugar. “Eat. Grief is heavier on an empty stomach.”

The shelters’ computer lab felt alien under fluorescent lights. Dora hovered behind Miguel as he pecked at a keyboard, his small fingers stumbling over the letters.

“M-Miss Dora?” He pointed to the screen, where a pixelated butterfly hovered above a typing game. “It’s stuck.”

She guided his hand to the spacebar. “Sometimes you have to let things go so they can move forward.”

The butterfly soared when he released the key. Miguel giggled, unaware of the tears Dora blinked away.

That night, Dora spread Wallace’s remaining artifacts on Gails’ bedroom floor-a scratched iPod nano, a baseball glove smelling of neatsfoot oil, a single sock with a hole in the toe. Gail watched from the bed, her sketchbook open to a half-finished drawing of the garden.

“Why keep these?” she asked softly.

Dora turned the iPod over, tracing the initials W.G. etched clumsily into the casing. “Proof I existed before. Even if it’s just… fragments.”

Gail slid down beside her, their shoulders touching. “You don’t need proof. We see you.”

“But what if-” Dora’s voice cracked. “What if the magic fades? What if I wake up tomorrow and none of this is real?”

Gail laced their fingers together, calluses catching on Dora’s smoother skin. “Then we’ll build it again. Every damn day if we have to.”

The dream returned at midnight.

Dora stood in an endless corridor of locked doors, each labeled with a year of Wallace’s life. Behind one, her sister laughed at a joke Dora no longer remembered. Behind another, her father snored in his recliner, the TV flickering static. She pressed her palm to each knob, feeling the vibrations of a life erased.

“You can’t have both,” Ms. Elara said, materializing beside her with a pocket watch filled with swirling moths. “The past or the future. The boy or the girl.”

Dora reached for the oldest door-1999, the year she’d learned to ride a bike. “What happens if I open it?”

Ms. Elara’s smile was sorrow itself. “You’ll remember. And forgetting will feel like dying.”

The door dissolved to dust. Dora fell forward into light.

She woke gasping, Gail’s arms already around her. “I’m here,” Gail murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Dora clung to her, breathing in the scent of lavender detergent and Gails’ sweat. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

“You don’t have to be.” Gail pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’re strong for each other.”

At dawn, Dora knelt in the garden, the moth stone warm in her hand. She buried Wallace’s iPod at the base of the sunflowers, covering it with compost and crushed eggshells.

“What’re you doing?” Jay asked, sipping cold brew from a mason jar.

“Planting a different kind of seed,” Dora said. She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. “Will you help me paint the new benches today? I was thinking rainbows.”

Jay grinned. “Only if we add glitter.”

Mrs. Kowalski found the offering later-a zucchini blossom placed atop her recipe box, its petals still damp with dew. Inside the box, nestled between her babcia’s pierogi instructions and a 1983 coupon for free dry cleaning, lay a handwritten note:

Thank you for teaching me how to grow.

The old woman pressed it to her chest, her rheumy eyes on the garden where Dora laughed with Jay, and whispered, “Rośnij, mały kwiatku. Rośnij.”

Grow, little flower. Grow.

Chapter 30: The Letter

The shelter’s attic fan groaned against the August heat, its blades stirring dust motes into languid spirals above Dora’s head. She sat cross-legged in the circle of light from a single bare bulb, Wallace’s old shoebox balanced on her knees. Inside lay the artifacts of a ghost-a middle school ID photo with forced smile, a dried corsage from a forgotten dance, a postcard from a beach vacation where her father had called the ocean “God’s baptismal font.”

Below, the shelter hummed with its afternoon rhythm-Mrs. Kowalski’s radio playing Chopin études, the metallic clang of Jay rearranging donation racks, Gail’s laughter rising from the garden like birdsong. Dora traced the edges of a folded notebook page, its creases softened from weeks in her pocket.

Dear Mom and Dad,

The words glared up at her, ink smudged by sweat and hesitation.

The garden gate squealed on rusted hinges. Dora knelt between rows of late-season tomatoes, their leaves curling brown at the edges. She’d come to weed, but found herself instead cradling a green orb the size of a golf ball-the last fruit from a plant she’d nursed through July’s drought.

“They’ll ripen indoors,” Gail said, appearing with a cardboard box. She wore paint-splattered overalls, her hair pinned up with a pencil. “Mrs. K says we can use the kitchen windowsill.”

Dora pressed her thumb into the tomato’s taut skin. “This one’s still bitter.”

“So we’ll make fried green tomatoes.” Gail knelt beside her, their shoulders brushing. “Or compost it. Let it feed next year’s plants.”

The moth stone burned in Dora’s pocket. She’d taken to carrying it always, its ridges wearing smooth against her thumb. “What if there is no next year?”

Gail stilled. Across the alley, Mr. Westfield’s demolition crew shouted over the growl of a bulldozer. The developer had bought the adjacent lot last week-another step in his campaign to erase the shelter’s margins.

“Hey.” Gail turned Dora’s face toward her. “We’ve survived worse.”

Dora’s laugh tasted like rust. “I used to pray for erasure. Now I’m fighting to leave traces.”

The dream returned that night-not of her parents, but of Ms. Elara. They stood in a field of milkweed, the old woman’s braid unraveling into monarch wings.

You mistake absence for emptiness, she said, pressing a seedpod into Dora’s palm. What’s discarded often nourishes.

Dora woke with her fist clenched around nothing, the sheets damp with sweat. Gail slept soundly beside her, one arm flung across Dora’s waist.

In the Mitchells’ kitchen, she found the shoebox waiting like an accusation.

I’m not Wallace anymore. I don’t know if you’d recognize me-if you even remember having a child. The magic that made me took you too, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m not sorry for becoming myself.

Dora’s pen hovered. The demolition crew worked quickly. By noon, the shelter’s eastern wall stood exposed-weathered bricks streaked with decades of rain, the garden’s sunflowers now backdropped by rubble. Jay scaled the fire escape with a bucket of paint, their movements jerky with rage.

“What’re you doing?” Dora called up.

“Art therapy!” Jay slashed crimson across the bricks-YOU CAN’T BURY US.

Dora stepped between them. “It’s washable tempera. We’ll remove it tonight.”

The garden gate clanged. Mr. Westfield stood framed in sunlight, his Italian loafers crunching gravel.

Dora found the letter again that evening, crumpled beneath her pillow. Gail’s fingerprints smudged the edges where she’d clearly read it.

“You don’t have to send it,” Gail murmured from the doorway.

“I know.” Dora smoothed the paper. “But I need to finish it.”

They sat on the fire escape, legs dangling over the alley. Gail produced two stolen popsicles-grape and orange-the kind Mrs. Kowalski kept for kids.

I’m not asking forgiveness. I’m saying goodbye. The daughter you raised died years before the magic took him. I wish you could’ve met her.

Dora signed her name-not Wallace, not some halfway approximation, but Dora Eleanor Mitchell, the name Gails parents had helped her choose.

“Here.” Gail handed her a matchbook from the shelter’s kitchen. “If you want.”

The flame caught slowly, eating through apologies and recriminations alike. Dora held the burning paper until the heat seared her fingers, then let the ashes spiral down to mingle with Westfield’s rubble.

At dawn, Dora slipped into the garden. The tomato plant stood skeletal in the gray light, its remaining fruit scavenged by rats. She uprooted it gently, whispering Mrs. Kowalski’s Polish lullaby, and buried the roots in the compost bin.

In the freshly turned earth, she planted Ms. Elara’s seedpod.

“What’s that?” Jay asked, appearing with twin mugs of coffee.

“Not sure.” Dora patted the soil. “Something that needs ruins to grow.”

They watched the sunrise gild the protest mural. Somewhere beyond the alley, a bulldozer coughed to life.

Gail joined them, her smile softer than the dawn. “Ready?”

Dora laced their muddy fingers together. “Ready.”

The shelter’s bell rang-not the end, but a beginning.

Chapter 31: The Choice

The flyer on the shelter's bulletin board seemed innocent enough-pale blue paper with bold black text announcing "COMMUNITY TOWN HALL: THE FUTURE OF HOPE SHELTER." But Dora's stomach twisted as she read the smaller print: "In light of recent leadership changes and funding challenges, the board invites all community members to discuss our path forward."

Three weeks had passed since Pastor Mark had begun his sabbatical. Three weeks of tentative peace, of rebuilding the garden, of Jay's murals expanding across previously blank walls. Three weeks where Dora had begun to believe she might actually belong.

Now this.

"They're going to talk about me," she whispered to herself, fingers tracing the date-tomorrow evening at the community center.

"Not everything's about you, superstar," Jay teased, appearing beside her with a stack of donated blankets. Their green hair was freshly buzzed on the sides, and they'd added a small lightning bolt design above one ear. "Could be budget stuff. Or maybe they finally noticed the kitchen sink's been leaking since 2018."

Dora tried to smile, but anxiety coiled tighter in her chest. "The timing feels... deliberate."

Jay's expression softened. "Yeah. Maybe." They gestured toward the office. "Acting Director Regina asked for you, by the way. Something about the summer program."

Regina Chen had been appointed temporary shelter director after Pastor Mark's departure-a board member with nonprofit experience who'd always been kind to Dora, if a bit reserved. Still, Dora's palms grew damp as she knocked on the office door.

"Come in," Regina called.

The office had changed in subtle ways-Pastor Mark's austere cross replaced by a framed photo of shelter volunteers; his military-precise stacks of papers now organized in colorful folders. Regina looked up from her laptop, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Dora, thank you for coming. Please, sit."

Dora perched on the edge of the chair, hands folded tightly in her lap.

"I'm finalizing the summer youth program schedule," Regina began, "and I see you're down to lead the gardening workshop series." She peered over her glasses. "Are you still comfortable with that role?"

Dora blinked, surprised by the straightforward question. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Good." Regina smiled briefly. "I also wanted to make you aware of tomorrow's town hall. The board feels transparency is important during this transition period."

"What exactly will be discussed?" Dora asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Regina removed her glasses. "Funding priorities. Volunteer policies. Program direction." She paused. "And yes, some community members have expressed... concerns about certain changes at the shelter."

"You mean me."

Regina didn't deny it. "There's been talk. Mr. Westfield's allies on the Chamber of Commerce haven't been subtle."

Dora's chest tightened. "I thought-with Pastor Mark gone-"

"Problems rarely have a single source, Dora." Regina's tone was gentle but firm. "Pastor Mark's journey toward understanding is his own. But the shelter exists within a community that isn't always as accepting as we'd like."

"So what happens now?"

"That depends partly on you." Regina handed her a printed agenda. "You're welcome to attend. To speak, if you wish. Or not. The choice is yours."

The choice. As if it were that simple.

Gail found her later in the garden, aggressively pruning dead leaves from the tomato plants.

"Careful, you'll traumatize them," Gail said, handing Dora a bottle of water.

Dora took it without looking up. "There's a town hall tomorrow. About the shelter."

"I know. Mom texted me." Gail sat on the edge of the raised bed. "She's planning to speak in support of the new programs."

Dora snipped another withered branch. "Regina basically told me I'm on the agenda. Not by name, but..." She finally met Gail's eyes. "They're going to talk about whether someone like me belongs here."

Gail's jaw tightened. "Then we'll be there to remind them exactly who you are and everything you've done for this place."

"That's just it." Dora set down the shears. "Who am I? To them, I'm still a mystery-the girl with no past, no records." She plucked a cherry tomato, rolling it between her fingers. "Maybe it's time I told them."

"Told them what?"

"Everything. Who I am. Who I was."

Gail's expression shifted from confusion to understanding. "You mean-"

"I'm going to come out. Publicly. At the town hall."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant chatter of shelter guests in the courtyard.

"Are you sure?" Gail finally asked. "That's... big."

"I'm tired of hiding pieces of myself." Dora squashed the tomato, red juice staining her fingers. "I'm tired of people like Westfield thinking they can erase me if they just keep questioning my right to exist."

Gail took her sticky hand. "Then I'm right there with you."

That evening, Dora sat cross-legged on her bed in the Mitchells' guest room-her room now, with its pale yellow walls and bookshelf Gail's dad had built. Her notebook lay open before her, blank page awaiting words that wouldn't come.

How did you explain something like this? How did you tell a room full of strangers that you weren't always who you appeared to be, without feeding into their worst suspicions?

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Susan Mitchell stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in each hand.

"Gail mentioned tomorrow's meeting," she said, offering Dora a steaming cup. "Thought you might need this."

Dora accepted it gratefully. "Thanks."

Susan sat beside her, the bed dipping slightly. "She also mentioned your decision."

Heat rose in Dora's cheeks. "I'm not trying to cause trouble."

"I know that." Susan's voice was soft. "But I want to make sure you're doing this for the right reasons." When Dora looked confused, she continued. "Are you coming out because you want to, or because you feel forced?"

Dora stared into her tea, the question resonating somewhere deep. "I don't know if there's a difference anymore."

"There is." Susan touched her arm. "One path leads to freedom. The other to resentment."

"But if I don't, they'll keep trying to push me out. Keep questioning my right to be there."

"That may happen regardless."

Dora looked up. "Then what's the point?"

"The point is that you get to decide how much of yourself to share, and when, and with whom." Susan's eyes crinkled with a sad smile. "Coming out isn't something you owe anyone, Dora. Not even to stop them from talking about you."

The words settled over Dora like a weighted blanket-uncomfortable at first, then strangely comforting.

"I think I want to," she said finally. "Not because they deserve to know, but because I'm tired of feeling like I have something to hide."

Susan squeezed her hand. "Then we'll be right there with you."

After Susan left, Dora returned to her notebook. This time, the words came more easily. Not a speech, exactly, but a constellation of truths she'd been carrying alone for too long.

Morning brought rain-a gentle summer shower that beaded on the garden's tomatoes and made the shelter's old roof leak in three new places. Dora helped Jay position buckets under the worst spots, both of them pretending the day was ordinary.

"Heard you're speaking tonight," Jay said finally, as they mopped up a puddle near the rec room.

"Word travels fast."

"Small shelter, big ears." Jay wrung out the mop. "For what it's worth, I think you're braver than all those board members combined."

Mrs. Kowalski found her at lunch, pressing a foil-wrapped package into her hands. "My babcia's recipe," she whispered. "For courage."

Inside was a jam-filled cookie still warm from the kitchen's oven. Dora bit into it, sweet raspberry melting on her tongue, and felt tears prick her eyes.

By evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean. Dora changed three times before settling on simple black jeans and the blue daisy-collared shirt she'd worn on her first full day as herself. Gail braided her hair, now long enough to brush her shoulders.

"Ready?" Gail asked, securing the braid with an elastic.

Dora met her eyes in the mirror. "No. But I'm going anyway."

The community center hummed with voices when they arrived. Rows of folding chairs faced a small stage where Regina and the board members sat behind a table. Dora recognized familiar faces from the shelter-volunteers, regular guests, staff members-alongside community figures she knew only by sight: the mayor, small business owners, church leaders.

Mr. Westfield sat in the front row, his silver hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Dora's courage nearly failed her then. But Gail's warm hand found hers, and beyond her, Susan and Robert Mitchell nodded encouragement. Jay waved from where they sat with a group of shelter teens. Even Mrs. Kowalski had come, her arthritic hands clutching her rosary.

Regina opened the meeting with a status update on the shelter's programs. Budget reports followed, then a discussion of building repairs needed. Finally, she reached the last agenda item:

"Community Questions and Concerns."

Mr. Westfield stood immediately. "I'd like to address the elephant in the room," he began, not waiting for recognition. "This shelter has strayed from its founding mission under... recent influences. Certain individuals have been allowed to set a tone that makes many community members uncomfortable."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dora's heart pounded so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.

"While Pastor Mark takes his sabbatical," Westfield continued, "I believe we should return to a more traditional approach. One that reflects the values of those who fund this work."

"And what values would those be, exactly?" Gail's mother called out from her seat, her tone deceptively pleasant.

Westfield's smile tightened. "Christian values. Family values. The recognition that there are certain natural orders that shouldn't be... confused."

More murmurs, some supportive, others angry.

"If I may," Regina interjected, "the shelter's mission is to provide safe haven and resources to all in need, regardless of background. That mission hasn't changed."

"Perhaps it should," another voice called-a man Dora recognized as one of Westfield's business associates. "If we're supporting lifestyles that go against God's plan."

Dora felt something crystallize inside her. Before she could second-guess herself, she was on her feet.

"Excuse me." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "I'd like to speak."

Regina nodded. "Please come up, Dora."

The walk to the microphone seemed endless. She could feel every eye in the room, hear the whispered questions: "Who is she?" "Isn't that the mysterious girl?" "The one staying with the Mitchells?"

Dora unfolded her notes, then set them aside. The truths she needed to share were written on her heart.

"My name is Dora," she began. "I've been volunteering at Hope Shelter for the past few months. I help in the garden. I read to kids. I sort donations." She took a breath. "And yes, I'm transgender."

The word hung in the air like a thunderclap. Someone gasped. Westfield's face darkened.

"I wasn't always Dora," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "But I've always been this person-someone who cares deeply, who wants to help, who believes everyone deserves dignity." She looked directly at Westfield. "You've questioned who I am, where I came from. You've suggested I don't belong at the shelter."

She gestured to the crowd. "But here's what you don't understand. The shelter isn't just a building. It's not just a service. It's a promise-that there's a place for everyone who needs one. That nobody gets left outside in the cold."

Dora's eyes sought out Jay, Mrs. Kowalski, the teens she'd helped with homework. "I've found family there. I've found purpose. And I've tried every day to make it better for everyone who walks through those doors."

Her hands trembled, but her voice remained clear.

"I know my existence makes some people uncomfortable. But I'm not going to disappear to make things easier. I choose to stay. I choose to fight for my place-not just for myself, but for everyone who's ever been told they don't belong."

The room had gone completely silent. Dora could hear her own heartbeat, the soft whir of the ceiling fans, the distant call of a mourning dove outside.

"I'm Dora," she said finally. "I'm transgender. And I belong at Hope Shelter just as much as anyone else in this room."

She stepped back from the microphone, suddenly lightheaded. The silence stretched for one heartbeat, two, three-

Then Mrs. Kowalski stood, her arthritis-bent frame straightening with effort. "I've known this girl since she first arrived," she said, voice wobbling but determined. "She brings sunshine to that old building. Makes my bread rise better." A few people chuckled. "If she doesn't belong there, then neither do I."

Jay stood next. Then Miguel and his mother. One by one, shelter guests and volunteers rose-not all of them, but enough. A living testimony that Dora wasn't alone.

Regina called the meeting back to order, her expression unreadable. "Thank you for your courage, Dora. And for reminding us all why the shelter exists." She looked around the room. "I believe we have some decisions to make as a community. Not tonight, but soon."

As Dora made her way back to her seat, legs still shaky, Gail pulled her into a fierce hug.

"You did it," she whispered. "You chose to be completely yourself."

Over Gail's shoulder, Dora caught Mr. Westfield's hard stare, the set of his jaw promising this wasn't over. But for now-for tonight-she had spoken her truth. She had claimed her place.

And for the first time since she'd become Dora, she felt not just real, but fully alive.

Chapter 32: The Support

The morning after the town hall, sunlight streamed through the Mitchells’ kitchen windows, painting the room in gold. Dora sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, the steam curling into shapes she couldn’t decipher. The events of the previous evening played in her mind like a film reel-Mrs. Kowalski’s trembling voice defending her, Jay’s mural-smeared hands raised in solidarity, Gail’s fingers interlaced with hers as the room erupted in uneasy applause. But it was Mr. Westfield’s icy glare that lingered, a shadow at the edge of her newfound light.

“You’re famous,” Gail teased, sliding into the chair beside her. She wore yesterday’s clothes, her hair mussed from a sleepless night. On her phone, a local news headline blared: Transgender Volunteer Sparks Debate at Hope Shelter Town Hall. The article featured a photo of Dora at the microphone, her chin lifted, the shelter’s sunflower mural blazing behind her like a halo.

Dora pushed the phone away. “Famous or infamous?”

“Both, probably.” Gail’s smile faded. “Mom says three donors already pulled funding. Westfield’s friends on the Chamber are making noise about ‘reviewing the shelter’s mission.’”

The tea turned bitter in Dora’s mouth. “And Pastor Mark?”

“Resigned an hour ago. Regina’s interim director now.” Gail traced the rim of her mug. “He left something for you.”

The envelope sat on Pastor Mark’s-Regina’s-desk, stark white against the polished wood. Inside, Dora found a faded Polaroid and a handwritten note. The photo showed two teenagers on a pier, their arms slung around each other-a younger Mark and someone with his eyes but softer features, their hair cropped short, a pride flag pin glinting on their denim jacket.

Her name was Alex, the note read. She was my sister. I’ll try to be worthy of your mercy.

Dora slipped the photo into her pocket, the edges digging into her palm like a lifeline.

By noon, the shelter buzzed with uneasy energy. Volunteers clustered in the hallway, their whispers dissolving when Dora approached. In the family room, Miguel waved her over to a half-finished puzzle. “Did you really used to be a boy?” he asked, scattering pieces with his sneaker.

Jay materialized behind them, their green hair vibrant under the fluorescents. “Miguel, my dude, that’s like asking if a butterfly used to be a caterpillar. Technically true, but missing the point.” They flopped onto the couch, arm brushing Dora’s. “You okay?”

Dora studied the puzzle-a galaxy of stars, half-formed constellations. “I don’t know. It feels… loud.”

“Loud’s better than silent.” Jay handed her a piece shaped like Ursa Major. “Silence is where shit festers.”

Regina’s first act as director was to remove the “Modest Attire Required” sign from the lobby. Her second was to reinstate the garden. By dusk, volunteers and guests alike knelt in the soil, uprooting weeds and salvaging trampled zucchini plants. Dora worked beside Mrs. Kowalski, the old woman’s knuckles brushing hers as they tamped dirt around fresh basil sprouts.

“You remind me of her, you know,” Mrs. Kowalski said suddenly. “My granddaughter. She’s studying biology in Chicago. Wants to cure climate change.” Her laugh rasped like wind through dry leaves. “Thinks she can save the world with compost and stubbornness.”

Dora smiled. “Sounds familiar.”

The board meeting convened at sunset. Through the conference room window, Dora watched Mr. Westfield pace the parking lot, his phone pressed to his ear. Inside, Regina outlined a new donor strategy-grassroots fundraising, partnerships with LGBTQ+ organizations, a volunteer-led transparency committee.

“And the garden?” Dora asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Regina slid a budget sheet across the table. “We’re expanding it. Maybe add a greenhouse.”

When the vote came, only Westfield’s ally dissented.

Gail found Dora on the fire escape later, her silhouette framed by the shelter’s new mural-a phoenix rising from ash, painted in Jay’s signature neon strokes. Below, the city hummed, indifferent and alive.

“Remember our first kiss?” Gail asked, leaning into her. “You panicked and said you had to feed Mrs. Kowalski’s cat.”

“There was no cat.”

“Exactly.” Gail turned, her breath warm against Dora’s cheek. “I’m done hiding.”

The kiss, when it came, was nothing like their careful basement embraces. Gail’s lips were chapped, her hands anchoring Dora’s waist as the mural’s colors bled into the twilight. From the alley, someone whooped-Jay, probably-but Dora didn’t pull away. Let them see. Let the world adjust.

At midnight, Dora unlocked the shelter’s storage closet. Inside, boxes of donated clothes spilled onto the floor-discarded prom dresses, threadbare flannels, a sequined jacket that shimmered like a moth’s wing. In the back, she unearthed a dusty typewriter, its keys stiff but functional.

She fed a blank page into the roller and typed:

Dear Alex,
You don’t know me, but your brother gave me this photo…

Somewhere in the city, a train whistled-a long, lonely sound that might have been a dirge or a lullaby. Dora pressed the moth stone to her chest and kept writing.

By dawn, the garden’s first sunflower had bloomed, its face turned stubbornly toward the light.

Chapter 33: The Reckoning
The shelter’s boardroom buzzed with uneasy energy, its cracked leather chairs and faded diplomas bearing witness to decades of debates. Today, the air felt heavier-charged with the weight of a decision that would ripple far beyond these walls. Dora sat between Gail and Mrs. Kowalski, her fingers tracing the moth stone in her pocket. Across the table, Mr. Westfield leaned back in his seat, his tailored suit and polished shoes a stark contrast to the shelter’s patched carpets. His presence loomed like a storm cloud, his allies on the board nodding as he shuffled papers with deliberate calm.

Regina Chen, now interim director, called the meeting to order. “This hearing addresses concerns about the shelter’s direction and funding,” she began, her voice steady but edged with fatigue. “We’ll hear testimonies first.”

The Fracture
Mr. Westfield’s lawyer spoke first-a man with a voice like a spreadsheet. “My client’s concerns about reputational risk are well-documented. The shelter’s recent…associations”-his gaze flicked to Dora-“have led to a 37% drop in donations from upstanding community members.”

Gail’s knee bounced under the table. “He means you existing,” she muttered.

Dora clenched her fists. The numbers were real-she’d seen the empty donation bins, heard the whispers at the grocery store. But so was the garden she’d rebuilt, the mural Jay had painted, the homework club Miguel’s mother credited with keeping him off the streets.

Mrs. Kowalski stood abruptly, her cane thumping the floor. “I’ve been here twenty years,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “This place saved me when my husband died. But it’s not the cross on the wall or the money in the bank that does the saving. It’s the people.” She pointed at Dora. “That girl taught my arthritis-riddled hands how to grow basil again. You want to measure that in percentages?”

The room erupted-applause, jeers, a teen volunteer snapping, “Let her speak!”

Regina banged her gavel. “Order! Ms. Mitchell, you’re next.”

The Testimony
Dora’s legs trembled as she approached the podium. The moth stone burned in her palm, its wings biting her skin. She’d practiced this speech a dozen times, but the words scattered like spooked birds.

“I’m Dora,” she began. A hiccup of silence. Then, louder: “I’m transgender. I’m a volunteer. I’m someone’s daughter, even if my own parents don’t remember me.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “This shelter isn’t just a building. It’s the first place I felt safe enough to breathe. To be seen.”

She turned to Mr. Westfield. His jaw twitched.

“You’ve asked who I really am,” she said. “But maybe the better question is, who are we? A place that turns people away because they don’t fit? Or a place that says, ‘Come as you are’?”

Jay whooped from the back. Someone else clapped. Dora’s courage solidified.

“You want to talk about risks? The real risk is losing what makes this place holy-not the sermons, but the saving.”

The Truth
Mr. Westfield stood, adjusting his cufflinks. “This is touching, but let’s be practical. Without funding, this shelter closes. And let’s be clear”-he leveled his gaze at Dora-“your presence here is divisive. Good intentions don’t pay the bills.”

Regina leaned forward. “We’ve received over fifty letters from community members supporting Dora and the new programs.”

“Letters don’t sign checks,” Westfield snapped.

Gail shot to her feet. “Then maybe we don’t need your checks!” She pulled a crumpled spreadsheet from her pocket. “We’ve raised $12,000 through grassroots donations this month alone. The summer fair brought in triple what your last fundraiser did.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. Westfield’s face darkened.

Miguel’s mother stood, her son’s IEP paperwork clutched in her hands. “Before Dora, my boy hated school. Now he reads to the little kids here. That’s worth more than your money.”

One by one, shelter guests and volunteers rose-a trans teen clutching hormone pills, a veteran with a service dog, Jay holding a can of spray paint like a scepter. Their testimonies wove together-a tapestry of Doras bedtime stories, rebuilt gardens, and small acts of defiance.

The Verdict
Regina cleared her throat. “The board moves to vote on Mr. Westfield’s proposal to remove Dora and revise the volunteer policy.”

Dora’s heart pounded. She glanced at Gail, who mouthed, Breathe.

The votes were tallied in silence.

“The motion fails,” Regina announced. “Six to three.”

Westfield stood, his chair screeching. “You’ll regret this.”

“Doubt it,” Jay called out. “Your steakhouse sucks anyway!”

Laughter erupted, cutting the tension like a knife.

The Aftermath
At dusk, Dora found Mrs. Kowalski in the garden, pruning dead leaves from the tomato plants.

“Need help?” Dora asked.

The old woman smiled. “Always.”

They worked in companionable silence, the soil cool under their hands. Mrs. Kowalski handed Dora a seedling-a fragile zucchini sprout. “You remind me of my granddaughter. Stubborn. Kind. Too brave for your own good.”

Dora tucked the plant into the earth. “Think it’ll survive?”

Mrs. Kowalski patted her hand. “It’s got you.”

Gail waited at the gate, her smile tinged with exhaustion. “Westfield’s pulling his funding.”

Dora linked their fingers. “Then we’ll plant something new.”

Above them, the shelter’s sign creaked in the wind-Hope Lives Here.

In the parking lot, Jay revved their motorcycle, tossing Dora a helmet. “Adoption hearing’s tomorrow. Ready to be a Mitchell?”

Dora laughed, the sound lighter than air. “Born ready.”

As they sped toward the courthouse, the sunset blazed-a promise, not an ending. The roots they’d planted would hold.

Chapter 34: The Name

The courthouse hallway hummed with anticipation, its marble floors buffed to a high shine that reflected the morning light in liquid pools. Dora sat between Gail and Susan Mitchell, her palms pressed to the wooden bench to steady their trembling. Through the tall windows, sunlight streamed over a group of shelter residents clustered in the parking lot-Mrs. Kowalski clutching her rosary, Jay adjusting their "Proud Mentor" pin, Miguel waving a hand-drawn sign dotted with glitter hearts.

"All rise," the bailiff called.

Dora's knees nearly buckled. Gail slipped a hand into hers-anchoring, familiar-as they filed into the courtroom. The judge's bench loomed ahead, its polished surface reflecting the sunflower mural painted across Dora's shirt. She focused on that echo of color as the judge, a woman with silver-streaked locks and eyes that missed nothing, reviewed the paperwork.

"This is highly unorthodox," the judge said, tapping the file. "No birth records, no prior documentation..."

Susan leaned forward, her voice steady. "Your Honor, we've submitted affidavits from over fifty community members, school enrollment records, and verification of Dora's volunteer work. She's been an integral part of our family and this town for months."

The judge studied Dora. "And you, young lady. Why should I approve this petition?"

Dora's throat tightened. She thought of the moth stone's warmth against her chest, of Mrs. Kowalski's hands guiding hers as they kneaded dough that always rose despite the odds. Of the polaroid in her pocket-her and Gail laughing under the shelter's repainted sign, sunlight glinting off fresh letters: Hope Lives Here.

"Because I'm real," she said, voice clear. "Not just in how I look or what I do, but in how I love and am loved." She gestured to the window where her chosen family waited. "The Mitchells taught me that belonging isn't something you're born into-it's something you build through trust and care. And I've been building mine every single day."

The judge's gaze softened. She stamped the file with a decisive thud. "Congratulations, Dora Mitchell."

Rain lashed the windshield as Robert drove them home. Gail whooped, unfastening her seatbelt to hug Dora across the backseat. "You’re stuck with us now!"

"Gail, seatbelt!" Susan chided, but she was smiling.

Dora pressed her forehead to the cool glass, watching the world blur. Mitchell. The name settled into her bones, warmer than any magic. At the shelter, a banner hung over the entrance: WELCOME HOME, DORA. The residents erupted into cheers as she stepped inside-Miguel showering her with dandelion fluff, Jay setting off a confetti cannon that left glitter in the rafters for weeks.

Only later, in the quiet of the Mitchells' attic, did the weight of it hit. Dora spread the adoption decree on the floor, tracing the inked letters. Gail found her there, two mugs of cocoa in hand.

"You okay?"

Dora nodded, throat tight. "I just… never thought I’d have proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That I’m allowed to exist like this-fully, completely me."

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, slipped under the shelter’s back door. The envelope was plain, the handwriting shaky but deliberate.

*Dear Dora,

Your courage gave me the strength to reach out to my brother. He’s trying, in his way. The garden you mentioned in the news article-Alex loved cosmos. Maybe next spring, we could plant some together.

Thank you for being his mirror.

-A.*

Dora read it three times, then pressed it to her chest. At the bottom of the envelope, a polaroid fluttered out-two teenagers on a pier, their arms slung around each other. She pinned it beside the adoption decree, the two documents forming a bridge between past and future.

"Ready?" Gail asked as they approached the courthouse again, the morning of the legal name confirmation hearing.

Dora adjusted her binder-stiff and new, bought with her first paycheck from the shelter’s youth program. "It’s just paperwork."

But it wasn’t. The clerk’s bored expression sharpened as Dora stated her reason for the petition. "To align with my true identity," she said, chin lifted.

The gavel fell. "Granted."

Outside, Jay waited with a spray-painted banner: DORA MITCHELL: OFFICIALLY A BADASS. The shelter teens whooped, tossing biodegradable glitter that caught the light like crushed stars.

That night, Dora stood before the shelter’s full-length mirror-the one Gail had salvaged from a dumpster and repainted with vines. She wore her binder, a thrifted blazer, and the daisy-collared shirt from her first week as herself. The reflection stared back, steady and sure.

"Knock knock," Mrs. Kowalski said, leaning in the doorway. She held a polaroid camera-an ancient thing with a leather strap. "For the records."

Dora laughed but posed by the garden window where the sunset gilded her profile. The flash popped, freezing the moment: a girl, whole and named, her shadow stretching toward tomorrow.

At the bonfire celebration, Dora found Jay teaching Miguel to skateboard in the parking lot. "Hey mentor," they teased, tossing her a sparkler. "Ready to save the world?"

"Just this corner of it," Dora said, lighting the sparkler from the flames.

As the fire crackled, Gail laced their fingers together. "What now?"

Dora watched the sparks rise-bright, fleeting, beautiful. "We keep building."

Somewhere in the dark, a moth brushed her cheek-soft as a secret, gone before she could blink.

In her room that night, Dora opened a fresh journal-its pages blank, its spine uncreased. She wrote:

Today, the law caught up with what my heart always knew. I am Dora Eleanor Mitchell-daughter, sister, friend. My story doesn’t start with erased records or unanswered questions. It starts here, now, with hands that hold mine and a future we shape together.

The past is a shadow, but the present? The present is a garden.

She closed the book, its cover warm under her palm. Outside, the moon hung full and bright, its light spilling over the shelter’s new sign-Hope Lives Here-and the freshly turned earth where cosmos seeds slept, waiting for spring.

Chapter 35: The Reunion

The letter arrived on a morning thick with the scent of impending rain-a single envelope slipped under the shelter’s back door, its edges frayed from travel. Dora almost missed it, too preoccupied with helping Jay repaint the garden shed after a summer storm had stripped its vibrant mural to ghostly outlines. The paper felt heavy in her hands, the ink smudged in places as if the writer had hesitated mid-sentence.

Dear Dora,
You don’t know me, but your courage gave me the strength to reach out. Mark showed up at my door last week-shaking, holding a photo I thought he’d burned years ago. He said you taught him that forgiveness isn’t a weakness. I’m not sure I believe that yet, but I’m willing to try.
Thank you for being the mirror he needed.
-Alex

A polaroid fluttered out-two teenagers on a weathered pier, their arms slung around each other. The younger Mark grinned, his face unlined by sermons or shame, while Alex’s cropped hair caught the sunlight, a pride pin gleaming on their denim jacket. Dora traced the image, the moth stone warm in her pocket.

“Everything okay?” Jay called from the shed, their green hair streaked with cerulean paint.

Dora tucked the letter into her back pocket. “Just a friend.”

The community center buzzed with the clatter of folding chairs and the hum of a malfunctioning microphone. Summer had transformed the shelter’s annual fundraiser from a somber luncheon into a vibrant street fair, complete with Jay’s graffiti-inspired face-painting booth and Mrs. Kowalski’s infamous “Rebel Pierogi” stand. Dora adjusted the sunflower crown Gail had woven for her, its petals brushing her temples as she helped Miguel arrange mismatched plates on the donation table.

“Do I have to wear this?” Miguel tugged at his bowtie, a hand-me-down from Gail’s father.

“Only if you want pierogi privileges,” Dora said, straightening his collar.

Gail appeared, balancing a tower of recycled mason jars. “Westfield’s here.”

Dora followed her gaze. Mr. Westfield stood at the edge of the parking lot, his tailored suit at odds with the rainbow chalk art underfoot. He studied the banner above the grill-HOPE LIVES HERE painted in Jay’s signature neon-before turning sharply on his heel.

“Think he’ll cause trouble?” Miguel whispered.

Dora watched the retreating figure. “Some storms just pass through.”

Three hundred miles away, Pastor Mark sat in a diner booth, his coffee gone cold. The vinyl seat creaked as he shifted, his fingers worrying the polaroid’s edges. The bell above the door jingled.

Alex stood framed in the doorway, their hair now streaked with silver, a tattoo of dandelion seeds drifting up their forearm. For a heartbeat, Mark saw the sibling who’d taught him to skip stones, who’d hidden his baseball glove when their father called it a “distraction from scripture.”

“You came,” Mark said, rising too quickly.

Alex slid into the booth, their gaze lingering on the photo. “You kept it.”

“I tried not to.” The admission hung between them, raw and unvarnished.

A waitress appeared, refilling Mark’s cup. Alex ordered tea-peppermint, no sugar-a habit unchanged since childhood.

“Why now?” Alex asked, their voice softer than Mark remembered.

He unfolded Dora’s letter, the creases worn from rereading. “You don’t have to be who they made you.”

Back at the fair, Dora knelt beside the community mural-a sprawling canvas where shelter guests and volunteers had painted their hopes in bold strokes. A trans teen added a rising phoenix; a veteran sketched a service dog with wings. In the corner, Mrs. Kowalski’s arthritic hand had left a single word: Persist.

“Need a hand?”

Dora turned. A stranger stood behind her-early thirties, with Mark’s nose and a smile that crinkled their eyes. They held a brush already dipped in gold.

“Alex?” Dora whispered.

“Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.” Alex crouched, adding a cosmos flower to the mural’s edge. “He’s trying, you know. Sent me a care package-Bible verses mixed with PFLAG pamphlets. Progress, I guess.”

Dora laughed, the sound mingling with the distant chords of Jay’s garage-band cover of “Brave.” “How long are you staying?”

Alex nodded to a duffle bag by the pierogi stand. “Long enough to teach Mark how to apologize properly.”

The bonfire roared as dusk painted the sky in watercolor streaks. Gail passed around s’mores, her fingers sticky with marshmallow, while Jay led a chorus of off-key showtunes. Dora sat cross-legged in the grass, the flames casting shadows on Alex’s face as they recounted their first Pride parade-1999, a hand-painted sign and shoes they’d outrun their father in.

“You’re staying, then?” Mrs. Kowalski asked, handing Alex a plate of kielbasa.

“Long enough to make up for lost time.” Alex glanced at Dora. “And to meet the girl who thawed a glacier.”

Miguel tugged Dora’s sleeve. “Can we plant cosmos next spring? For Alex’s brother?”

“Former brother,” Alex corrected gently.

Miguel frowned. “But family’s forever, right?”

The fire popped, sending embers spiraling into the dark. Dora watched them rise-bright, fleeting, beautiful-and thought of polaroids and pierogis and the stubborn roots of forgiveness.

“Yeah,” she said, squeezing Miguel’s hand. “It is.”

Somewhere in the shadows, a moth brushed Pastor Mark’s cheek as he lingered at the edge of the light. He didn’t join them-not yet-but for the first time in decades, he didn’t turn away.

Chapter 36: The Bonfire

The shelter’s courtyard shimmered with strands of fairy lights, their glow soft against the deepening twilight. A pyramid of logs and kindling stood at the center, waiting to be lit. Dora adjusted the sunflower crown Gail had woven for her-its petals now edged with gold from the setting sun-and watched as volunteers and guests spilled into the space, their laughter mingling with the crackle of anticipation. Mrs. Kowalski’s pierogi stand emitted buttery steam, Jay’s latest mural-a phoenix rising over a field of cosmos-loomed on the back wall, and Miguel darted through the crowd, waving a sparkler like a tiny torch.

Gail slipped her hand into Dora’s, their fingers intertwining. “Ready?” she murmured, her breath warm against Dora’s ear.

Dora nodded, though her pulse fluttered. This wasn’t just a celebration; it was a farewell.

The bonfire roared to life as the last sliver of sun vanished. Flames licked the sky, casting long shadows that danced with the crowd. Dora stood at the edge of the light, the moth stone a familiar weight in her pocket. She’d carried it every day since her transformation, its ridges worn smooth by her thumb. Tonight, it felt different-warmer, almost humming.

“Showtime,” Jay said, nudging her toward the makeshift stage-a pallet draped with a quilt from the shelter’s donation pile.

The crowd quieted as Dora stepped forward. Faces she’d come to love stared back: Mrs. Kowalski wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, Miguel perched on his mother’s shoulders, Jay’s green hair glowing neon in the firelight. Even Pastor Mark lingered at the edge of the courtyard, his posture less rigid than she remembered, a polaroid peeking from his breast pocket.

“When I first came here,” Dora began, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat, “I thought belonging meant being someone else. Someone with a past, a family, a name that fit.” She touched the sunflower crown. “But you taught me that family isn’t something you’re born into-it’s something you build. Through kindness. Through showing up. Through choosing each other, again and again.”

Miguel whooped, his sparkler drawing arcs in the dark. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“This place,” Dora continued, gesturing to the shelter, “isn’t just walls and roof beams. It’s the hands that knead bread, the voices that read bedtime stories, the stubborn roots that grow even when the soil’s been salted.” Her gaze found Pastor Mark. He looked away, but not before she saw him touch the polaroid of Alex.

“We’re not angels,” she said, echoing Jay’s mural. “We’re just people trying. And that’s enough.”

The applause was a living thing-warm, insistent, alive. Gail pressed a kiss to her temple as she stepped down, and Jay handed her a marshmallow skewer with a flourish. “For the heroine of the hour.”

The fire burned lower, embers spiraling upward to meet the stars. Dora wandered to the garden, now lush with late-summer bounty. Moonlight silvered the zucchini leaves, the cosmos Alex had helped plant, the sunflowers standing sentinel along the fence. She knelt, brushing her fingers over a bloom, when the air shifted.

“You’ve tended it well.”

Ms. Elara stood beside her, her patched raincoat replaced by a dress that seemed woven from starlight. The moth stone in Dora’s pocket flared hot.

“You’re leaving,” Dora said, not a question.

The old woman smiled, her eyes reflecting galaxies. “My work here is done. Yours is just beginning.”

Dora’s throat tightened. “What if I’m not ready?”

“You’ve been ready since the moment you chose to stay.” Ms. Elara cupped Dora’s face, her touch like sunlight. “The magic was never in the stone. It was in you.”

The moth stone pulsed once, then crumbled to dust in Dora’s palm. Where it fell, a new cosmos sprouted-its petals edged in gold.

“Wait-” Dora reached for her, but Ms. Elara was already stepping into the shadows, her form dissolving into a swirl of fireflies.

“Look to the roots,” her voice whispered on the wind.

Gail found her there, tears cooling on her cheeks. “Hey,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around Dora from behind. “You okay?”

Dora leaned into her, watching the fireflies dance. “She’s gone.”

“But we’re here.” Gail turned her gently, pressing their foreheads together. “And we’re not going anywhere.”

They returned to the bonfire, where Jay was leading a raucous rendition of “Lean on Me.” Mrs. Kowalski handed Dora a pierogi, still warm from the griddle. “Eat,” she ordered. “Growing girls need strength.”

Miguel tugged her sleeve. “Can we plant more flowers tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Dora said, tousling his hair.

Pastor Mark approached as the crowd thinned, his hands deep in his pockets. “Alex sent a letter,” he said abruptly. “They’re coming to visit next month.”

Dora studied him-the loosened tie, the absence of his usual rigid posture. “Are you ready?”

He glanced at the polaroid, now tucked safely in his wallet. “I’m trying.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t absolution. But it was a start.

The fire died to coals, the stars wheeling overhead. Dora lay with her head in Gail’s lap, Jay sprawled beside them, tracing constellations.

“That one’s you,” Jay said, pointing to Cassiopeia. “All stubborn and shine.”

“And that’s you,” Gail countered, indicating Orion. “Flashy and dramatic.”

Dora laughed, the sound blending with the crickets’ song. She thought of Ms. Elara’s final words, of roots deepening in storm-tossed soil, of the shelter’s garden thriving against all odds.

Miguel’s voice piped up from his nest of blankets. “Dora? Do you think the fireflies are magic?”

She watched one land on her palm, its light pulsing softly. “Yeah,” she said. “But not the wand-waving kind. The kind that stays.”

As dawn tinged the horizon, the courtyard empty save for scattered embers, Dora pressed a hand to the shelter’s sun-warmed bricks. Somewhere inside, Gail and Jay slept tangled on a couch, Mrs. Kowalski snored in her rocking chair, and Miguel dreamed of dragons and dandelions.

She knelt by the newest cosmos, its golden petals unfurling. “Thank you,” she whispered-to the shelter, to the stars, to the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become.

The fireflies answered, their dance a promise: This is not an ending. This is the work of beginning.

In her pocket, a seedpod cracked open, ready to grow.

Chapter 37: The Date

The sky bled into twilight-streaks of violet and tangerine dissolving into a deep indigo as Dora adjusted the picnic basket on her arm. She’d spent hours preparing: sandwiches cut into careful triangles, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and a thermos of lemonade chilled with mint from the shelter’s garden. Gail had promised to handle the location, swearing secrecy with a grin that made Dora’s stomach flutter.

“You’re sure this isn’t a prank?” Dora called over her shoulder as Gail led her through the overgrown path behind the Mitchells’ house. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass, and the air hummed with cicadas.

“Would I lie to you?” Gail teased, her flashlight bobbing ahead. “Besides, after the summer we’ve had, you deserve more than a diner booth.”

The path opened abruptly into a clearing Dora had never seen-a small meadow ringed by oak trees, their branches strung with fairy lights that flickered like captive stars. A checkered blanket lay spread atop a hillock, flanked by citronella candles and a bouquet of cosmos plucked from the shelter’s garden.

“Gail…” Dora breathed, setting down the basket. “How did you-?”

“Jay helped.” Gail shrugged, but her cheeks flushed. “They’ve got a knack for ‘borrowing’ extension cords.”

They settled onto the blanket, knees brushing. Dora unpacked the food with exaggerated care, her hands steady despite the nervous thrill in her chest. This wasn’t their first kiss, or even their first time alone, but it was the first time they’d named the thing between them-a date-and the weight of that word felt sacred.

Gail bit into a sandwich, groaning. “You put pesto in here? Are you trying to marry me?”

Dora laughed, the sound mingling with the rustle of leaves. “Maybe I’m just showing off.”

“It’s working.” Gail licked a dab of aioli from her thumb, her gaze lingering.

As dusk deepened, they traded stories-mundane and profound. Gail recounted her disastrous first day at high school, complete with a locker malfunction and a mortifying encounter with a crush. Dora, emboldened by the night’s magic, described sneaking into the library as Wallace to read fashion magazines, her heart racing at every footstep.

“I used to practice walking in heels behind the nonfiction stacks,” she admitted, popping a strawberry into her mouth. “The librarian, Mrs. Chen, definitely knew. She’d just cough loudly whenever someone came near.”

Gail’s smile softened. “I wish I’d known you then.”

“You’d have hated me.” Dora traced the rim of her cup. “I was all slouched shoulders and mumbled apologies.”

“Nah.” Gail brushed a crumb from Dora’s lip, her touch lingering. “I’d have recognized you. The real you.”

The air shifted. Gail’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining as naturally as roots seeking water. Above them, the Milky Way sprawled-a luminous bridge between what was and what could be.

“I applied to college,” Gail said suddenly, her thumb stroking Dora’s knuckles. “Community college, but… they’ve got a social work program. Figured I could help with the youth center full-time.”

Dora’s heart swelled. “You’d be amazing at that.”

“Yeah?” Gail leaned back on her elbows, moonlight gilding her profile. “What about you? Still set on horticulture?”

Dora nodded, plucking a blade of grass. “I want to study restorative gardening-how green spaces can heal communities. Maybe even start a nonprofit.”

“Doctor Dora Mitchell.” Gail grinned. “Has a nice ring.”

“Shut up.” Dora shoved her playfully, but the title settled into her bones, warm and possible.

They lapsed into silence, the kind that thrums with unspoken truths. Gail’s head tilted toward Dora’s shoulder, her breath steadying. In the distance, an owl called, its cry slicing through the stillness.

“Do you ever…” Dora hesitated. “Do you ever miss who you were before all this?”

Gail sat up, considering. “Before you? I was kind of a mess. All anger and no direction.”

“I meant before the shelter. Before me.”

“Oh.” Gail’s gaze turned inward. “Sometimes I miss how simple things felt. But then I remember-simple wasn’t real. It was just… small.” She cupped Dora’s face, her touch firm. “You made my world bigger.”

Dora’s throat tightened. She’d spent so long fearing she’d borrowed this life-that her joy was a loan eventually due-but here, under Gail’s certainty, the fear dissolved.

A meteor streaked across the sky, its tail blazing silver. Gail pointed, childlike wonder in her voice. “Make a wish!”

Dora closed her eyes. Let this last. Let us grow.

When she opened them, Gail was watching her, soft and intent. “What did you wish for?”

“Same as always.” Dora leaned in, her lips grazing Gail’s ear. “You.”

The kiss began slowly-a question, an answer. Gail’s hands slid to Dora’s waist, anchoring her as the world tilted. Dora had kissed boys before, clumsy rehearsals in darkened bedrooms, but this was different. Gail tasted like lemonade and possibility, her sighs harmonizing with the rustling trees.

They broke apart, foreheads touching. Gail’s laugh was breathless. “Took you long enough.”

“Says the girl who panicked and talked about fertilizer during our first almost-kiss.”

“That was strategic!” Gail protested. “Romance requires buildup.”

Dora nipped her jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yours, though.”

The words hung between them, fragile and immense. Gail froze, eyes widening as if she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Dora’s heart hammered-not with fear, but recognition.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Gail swallowed. “You’re mine. And I’m… I’m yours. If you want.”

Dora kissed her-deeply, surely, pouring every unsung hope into it.

Dora squeezed her hand. “Always! In love together.”

Dora turned in her arms, kissing her once more-a promise, a beginning.

In her journal later, she wrote: Tonight, I learned that love isn’t a destination. It’s the courage to keep choosing someone, even when the path is uncertain. Gail is my compass, my collaborator, my safe harbor. Together, we’ll build a world where we both belong. Funny how the people who change the world never set out to. They just… refuse to stop caring.

She closed the notebook, the finality of the gesture softer than she’d expected. Outside, dawn tinged the horizon-pale gold bleeding into blue. Somewhere in the shelter’s garden, a new cosmos bud stretched toward the light, its roots deep, its future unwritten.

The miracle wasn’t in the transformation, or even the survival. It was in the choosing-to tend, to persist, to love without guarantee.
Miracles need maintenance. Some miracles weren’t magic. They were simply love.

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Comments

My first take: Love

I'm not good at commenting on stories. And besides, if a story is good, each person reads a different (maybe just slightly different) story when they read it. It's a kind of mirror to the reader.

I'm not brave like Dora, or any of the others. I didn't start showing myself until I knew it was safe, and I haven't had to fight for it. I mostly just had to stay alive, which was hard enough. To not give up and just let myself drown.

And it takes a long time for me to digest a good story, and by the time I do, everyone has gone on to another one (ADHD anyone?) But what comes through to me on this first reflection is the power of love. And Dora's willingness to accept it.

Some miracles weren’t magic. They were simply love.

wonderful. this is such a good story. thank you for sharing it.

Care and Love

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My first take: Love

Some miracles weren’t magic. They were simply love.

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