Page 64 of Scars and Crowns

"I was just . . . " He gestures vaguely toward the shelves. " . . . looking."

"Of course." I smile politely. "We'll be happy to help if you need anything."

Silence.

Another few awkward seconds pass. Then he nods once. "No . . . that's alright." He pauses, "I'll come another time." He turns around and walks back out.

The bell above the door rings again.

The shop falls quiet.

I wait until the door closes completely before turning around. She's still standing exactly where she was. She hasn't moved an inch. Her breathing is shallow. Too fast. Both hands are pressed hard against the sides of her thighs as though she's trying to stop herself from shaking.

"Daisy." I cross the room quickly. She doesn't seem to notice until I'm directly in front of her. Very gently, I cup her face between my hands.

Her skin feels cold. Far colder than it should. "Look at me." Her eyes lift slowly. They're unfocused. Looking through me rather than at me. "Hey." I keep my voice as steady as I can. "It's okay."

"You're safe." She still isn't really seeing me. "Breathe."

I inhale slowly. Then exhale. Again. Wordlessly encouraging her to match me.

For several long moments nothing changes. Then . . . Almost imperceptibly . . . Her breathing begins slowing. Her shoulders drop slowly. Her eyes finally settle properly onto mine. Recognition returns little by little. The colour doesn't. Not yet. Neither of us speaks. I don't rush her.

Eventually she swallows. "He had . . . " Her voice barely rises above a whisper. " . . . a buzz cut." I wait. "I'm . . . " Another swallow. " . . . afraid of men with buzz cuts."

The confession hangs quietly between us. She doesn't look away. But I can see it. She's waiting. Waiting for the questions. For me to ask why. Who? What happened? Every instinct inside me wants exactly those answers. Who frightened her badly enough that a haircut still carries this much power over her? Who taught her body to react like this? Who made fear settle so deeply into her bones that years later she still freezes at the sight of someone who merely resembles them?

The questions crowd painfully behind my teeth.

I don't ask a single one.

Not today.

Not now.

I look at her. Really look at her. She's only just beginning to breathe normally again. Her hands are still trembling beneath mine. Asking her to revisit whatever memory this is now . . . Wouldn't help her. It would only make her live through it all over again. When she's ready . . . she'll tell me. Or maybe she won't. Either way . . . that choice belongs entirely to her.

I nod once. Very gently. "Okay." That's all I say.

Nothing more. I keep my hands exactly where they are until the last faint tremor leaves her shoulders. Only then do I let them fall away. Inside my chest, . . . something has already shifted. I don't know what happened. I don't know who did it. I don't know how old this wound is or how deep it runs. Not knowing feels unbearable. It sits beneath my ribs like a splinter I can't reach. And underneath that helplessness . . . Something hotter begins to burn.

Anger.

Not the loud kind. Not the explosive kind. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind.

The sort that settles silently into your bones and starts making decisions before you've consciously realised you've made them. I built this bookshop because I wanted her to feel safe. I brought her home because I wanted her to breathe easier. If something as small as a stranger's haircut can steal that feeling from her . . . Then I'll remove every reminder I possibly can.

Quietly.

Without making a spectacle of it. Without forcing her to explain herself. By the end of this week . . . not one member of my household will have a buzz cut. Not a guard. Not a driver. Not a gardener. Not anyone working on the grounds she calls home. No announcements. No questions. Just change.

Because if there is even one thing within my power that might make this world gentler for her . . . I will do it.

The way I always have. Without asking for thanks. Without telling her why. She doesn't need explanations. She only needs to know one thing. As long as she lives under a roof that belongs to me . . . No fear gets to make itself comfortable here again.

ENOUGH

YUVAAN