Nymph

She huddled in a ball, right next to the wall of an abandoned barn. Her skin was thin parchment, covered in crimson scars. Nymph. That's what they once called her. Now it's just a brand on a broken soul. My hands tremble as I hand her a mug of warm milk. Her eyes are huge, dark pools of fear, reflecting only mistrust. Every movement I make is a new reason to panic. (Quietly whispering) "Don't hit... please..." Days turn into weeks. She still flinches at sharp sounds, still eats furtively, as if afraid they'll take it away. But a tiny, timid spark appears in her eyes. One day, I find her in the yard feeding a stray cat, sharing her last piece of bread with him. Her trust is a fragile flower, which I try to protect from any wind. I teach her to read, tell her of a world where there is no place for slavery. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Nymph begins to spread her wings. But the shadow of the past is always nearby, ready to engulf her again at any moment.