"The loudest wounds are often carried in silence."
There are moments in every life that divide time into two parts.
Before.
And after.
For Naquisi, it began long before she knew her own story.
Before she understood loss.
Before she knew what it meant to belong.
Before she learned that silence could become a language all its own.
She was born beneath a Caribbean sky where the sea stretched towards the horizon, its waters shimmering like polished sapphire beneath the morning sun. Jamaica breathed life in colour. The scent of salt drifted inland from the sea, the air mingling with the sweetness of ripe mangoes and rain soaked earth. Music spilled from open windows, and side walks begging you to stop by just for one dance. Laughter carried through narrow streets, and every sunset painted the sky as though the heavens themselves had dipped their hands into gold and fire. With passion and desire...
She would remember almost none of it.
Only fragments.
A woman's gentle hum.
Warm hands lifting her into an embrace.
The rhythm of waves against the shore.
And eyes…
Kind eyes that looked upon her as though they recognised something sacred.
Then…
Nothing.
At four years old, Naquisi crossed an ocean too young to understand that some journeys change a life forever.
England greeted her with grey skies and unfamiliar seasons. It was always cold dark and gloomy. The air carried no scent of salt, only the chill of approaching rain and icy winds. The silence felt different here. It was heavier somehow, settling into the spaces between people instead of flowing through them. Like a heavy cloud you could not see or touch.
Her adoptive family welcomed her with smiles, photographs, and promises of a better future. She wanted desperately to believe them. But they were as cold as the weather.
Children are born believing love is permanent.
Until they discover otherwise.
As the years unfolded, Naquisi learned to make herself small. To shrink rather than stand tall.
She learned that asking too many questions often led nowhere, and a palm to the face.
She learned that tears were easier to hide than explain.
She learned that surviving sometimes looked remarkably similar to being invisible.
Yet even as a child, strange moments found her.
She would wake before dawn convinced she had heard someone singing outside her window. Have vivid dreams of a different life.
Sometimes she dreamed of walking barefoot through shallow water beneath a sky filled with unfamiliar stars.
Sometimes she drew symbols in the margins of her schoolbooks, flowing shapes that resembled neither letters nor numbers. When teachers asked what they meant, she could never answer. Just doodles but they felt familiar.
“I don’t know,” she would whisper.
“I just… remember them.”
Remember.
The word lingered in her thoughts long after the conversation had ended.
By age twelve, childhood had become something she observed in other people. Friends was a forbidden word which would warrant a spanking if heard aloud.
One autumn evening, gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, Naquisi spoke the truth she had carried alone for far too long.
Her voice trembled.
She explained the abuse, from her father — for she trusted she had found her mother.
Each word felt like lifting a stone from the depths of her chest.
When she finished, there was silence.
She waited.
Surely her real mother would protect her.
Surely now things would change.
Instead, disbelief arrived before comfort.
Questions replaced compassion.
Doubt replaced safety.
A simple “you’re getting older, it’s ok” was all she received.
The silence that followed was louder than any scream.
Something inside her closed that day.
Not her heart.
Never her heart.
Only the part that believed truth was always enough. If she spoke the truth it would bring safety — but that day her world changed. That was the first day she began to shrink.
From that moment forward, Naquisi carried her pain quietly.
She smiled when expected.
She studied.
She worked.
She laughed at the appropriate moments.
She became remarkably skilled at appearing whole while quietly falling apart.
Yet the world has a curious way of calling back those who have forgotten themselves.
It began with water.
No matter where she lived, she found herself drawn to it.
Lakes.
Rivers.
Rain against glass.
Even the sound of running taps could still her thoughts.
Water asked nothing of her.
It simply listened.
On the evening of her eighteenth birthday, another chapter of her life came to an end.
She packed a single suitcase.
A handful of clothes.
A worn notebook filled with poems no one had read.
A photograph whose faces no longer felt like home.
She was leaving for London.
No celebration marked the occasion.
No farewell lingered in the doorway.
Only the quiet understanding that it was time to go.
As the train pulled away, Naquisi rested her head against the window.
The countryside blurred into streaks of green and grey, then slowly surrendered to the sprawling rhythm of the city.
London welcomed her with its endless movement. People hurried past one another without meeting each other’s eyes. The streets hummed with countless stories unfolding all at once, yet she had never felt more alone.
Days turned into weeks as she settled into a life that felt borrowed rather than lived.
She worked.
She studied.
She survived.
But some nights, when the city’s noise finally softened, she would walk by the river.
She never knew why, just watching the currents ebb and flow.
It simply felt as though something was waiting.
One evening, beneath a silver moon that scattered light across the dark water, she stood watching the tide roll gently against the shore.
The wind stilled.
The city seemed to hold its breath.
Then…
A voice.
Soft.
Melodic.
Not singing to the river.
Singing through it.
It carried no words she recognised, yet every note stirred something ancient, something old, something she could not ignore.
Her heart began to race.
The hairs on her arms rose and fresh tingles on her skin.
Slowly, she turned.
No one stood behind her.
The river flowed as though nothing had happened.
Yet deep within her, a door she had never known existed had begun to open.
And somewhere beyond sight…
Someone smiled — it felt familiar, like a book she had read from a lost archive...