Page 91 of Tiny's Testament
The scent of new lumber mingles with burnt rubber and spilled oil. It smells like rebuilding and memory, like something worth fighting for.
Torch stands along the east wall, his welding mask pulled down. Sparks roll off the metal in bright arcs, showering the concrete at his boots. He lifts the mask and yells over his shoulder, “Dagger, if you keep leaning on that support beam like it’s a bar counter, I swear I’m welding you to it.”
Dagger flips him off without looking up from the beam he and Bones are maneuvering into place.
Bones grunts. “Man, this thing weighs as much as Trigger’s attitude.”
Trigger is on a ladder near the ceiling, threading thick wiring through the rafters. “Keep talking,” he calls down. “I’ll reroutethe plumbing so your shower only runs cold for the rest of your life.”
Syvannah snorts at that, soft but real. She sits on the long bench just outside the bay, her legs tucked carefully under a blanket. Peanut sprawls across her lap, smug as a creature who knows she runs the place. She sits straighter now, one hand resting over healing ribs, eyes following the brothers with a calm that wasn’t there a week ago.
Trigger snaps at Blayze for tripping over a cord. Torch is yelling for someone to bring more shielding plates. Red and Blayze are arguing over music by the tool bench.
“It is country,” Blayze insists.
“It is not,” Red fires back, stabbing the playlist button again. “That is a man crying into a barrel of whiskey. We’re listening to Pearl Jam.”
Capone stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. “If I hear one more argument about the damn playlist, I am throwing both speakers into traffic.”
Red and Blayze shut up immediately.
Syvannah smiles into Peanut’s fur.
Trigger notices the curl of her smile before I do, his expression softening when he sees it. He walks past me, a coil of wire slung over one shoulder, and pauses just long enough to wipe sweat from his brow.
“She’s coming back to herself,” he says quietly.
I follow his gaze. Syvannah’s eyes meet mine for a moment. There is a softness there, something steady, something hopeful. She looks at these men like they are not chaos, but home.
“Piece by piece,” I answer.
Trigger bumps my arm with the side of his fist. The gesture is light, but it carries meaning. “So are you,” he says.
I look away before he can see how right he is. Something in me is loosening. Something is warming. Something is healing in the same uneven rhythm as she is.
As the brothers shout, weld, argue, drag beams, and rebuild the broken heart of our compound, Syvannah watches it all as if her world is knitting itself back together. For the first time in a long time, I think Trigger might be right. I’m coming back to myself, too.
Syvannah does not hide from the world or shrink from it. She leans into it at her own pace, even as memories pull her backward. Most days, her voice drifts down the hall as she talks with Nadia and Exleigh, the three of them weaving strength out of shared scars. I hear their laughter drift through the hallway, followed by quiet moments when voices soften and break. They remind one another that surviving does not erase scars and that scars do not mean weakness.
Most afternoons, when I walk past the bench outside the garage, she reaches out a hand without looking up from whatever she is drawing. My fingers find hers without thinking. The moment our hands meet, something inside me settles and goes still.
Today, the sun dips lower, brushing everything in warm amber. Syvannah sets Peanut aside and pats the bench.
“You have been somewhere else all day,” she says. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes search mine like she already knows the answer.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
I look at her and see the same softness she had that first morning in the infirmary, the one where she whispered that I did not save her, I found her. The memory loosens something in my chest.
“I need to deal with something,” I say. “Something I left behind a long time ago.”
Her brows knit with quiet concern. “Go if you need to. Just do not stay gone too long.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek, and she leans into the touch. “I will always come back to you.”
“Good,” she murmurs, a faint smile warming her features. “Because I am not done with you yet.”
