Hey there, readers—Kendra Cassidy back again, bringing you the next chapter of The Promise Keeper by Taylor Anne Vigil. If you’ve been following along, you know this story isn’t just about words spoken—it’s about the silences in between. The quiet battles, the small victories, the weight of what we hold onto and the freedom of what we choose to let go.

In Chapter Four, that battle shifts upward—toward the open sky. This chapter isn’t just about fear; it’s about what happens when we face it. It’s about the power of trying, even when everything in you wants to freeze, retreat, disappear. It’s about the beauty of small moments, of wind in your hands, of a kite soaring where you thought it might fall.

Taylor Anne Vigil knows how to make the quiet things matter. And this chapter? It’s a reminder that life isn’t just about what holds us down—it’s about what lifts us up.

So take a breath. Look up. And let’s fly.

The Promise Keeper

Chapter Four: That Big Blue Sky

For most people, looking at the sky is an afterthought. It’s something they do without realizing—like blinking, like breathing.

For TJ, looking at the sky was an act of courage.

And I’ll never forget the first time I watched him do it.

It was a quiet morning. The kids were at school, Alisha and Derek were at work, and my brother was in the front room, expanding his gaming career. I’d just gotten out of the shower, my towel draped over my shoulders to keep my wet hair from soaking my shirt. I sat cross-legged on the couch, listening as TJ described a movie he wanted me to see.

It was about a wounded soldier—one who had lost everything, only to be carried to safety by someone he had once considered his enemy.

I thought of my response long before I spoke.

“I’d like to watch that.”

As soon as TJ finished talking, I tried the words. “I-I-I—I’d—”

I stopped. My frustration boiled over, hot and suffocating. I clenched my hands over my knees, grounding myself against the anger burning under my skin. I tried again. Failed again.

And then, his voice—steady, calm.

“It’s okay.”

I risked a glance at him. He was smiling, not in amusement, but in understanding.

“Do you know why I smile when you stutter?” he asked.

I turned to face him fully, my curiosity outweighing my embarrassment.

“I smile,” he said, “because I know the words are coming. Because I know you’re trying.”

Something in me cracked. The weight I carried, the shame I never spoke about, suddenly felt seen.

When I didn’t respond, TJ reached out, his hand resting lightly on mine. A surge of anxiety rushed through me, instinct screaming at me to pull away.

No.

I was tired of that fear.

I swallowed it whole, forced myself to breathe through the panic clawing at my chest.

He’s not going to hurt you. You know he’s not. Trust him.

His hand was warm, grounding. I exhaled, forcing myself to focus on that, not on the fear twisting inside me.

Then, embarrassed by my own reaction, I turned away, heat creeping up my cheeks.

TJ’s voice softened.

“Hey. Look at me.”

I did.

“You’re trying,” he said. “You’re trying so hard, and I see that. Don’t beat yourself up just because you can’t get a word out. Okay?”

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze—a quiet reassurance and a whispered, “Give yourself grace.” Then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, he pulled back, scooting away as he muttered, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I-I-it was r-r-really comforting.”

I didn’t want him to pull away.

For a moment, I wondered why he had apologized. But then, I understood.

TJ had always been careful. He knew what fear looked like, what it felt like, and he wanted to make sure I felt safe.

A beat of silence passed before he stood. “Actually, I wanna show you something. Come with me.”

I left my towel draped over the couch and followed him outside.

“So,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “I told you about my fear of looking at the sky, right?”

He had.

Days ago, he had confessed that looking up made him dizzy, made his stomach twist into knots, made his mind scream you’re not safe! The night sky was just as bad—an endless, terrifying void. The only thing that kept him steady when he stepped outside for a smoke was the roof over the porch, shielding him from the vastness above.

That’s why he wore baseball caps. They weren’t just a style choice. They were a barrier.

I nodded.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, he exhaled slowly and said, “I’m afraid of the sky the way you’re afraid to talk. Part of me knows there’s nothing to be afraid of, but my anxiety tells me otherwise. And I’m guessing you feel the same way about your stutter. Is that fair to say?”

I nodded again.

He leaned forward, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “Watch this.”

Still holding the cigarette, TJ stood up and stepped into the middle of the yard. I heard him inhale—deep, measured—then tilt his head back, facing the thing he feared most.

His body tensed immediately.

His hands clenched into fists. His shoulders locked. From where I sat, I could see the way his whole body froze, like prey bracing for an unseen predator.

I recognized that feeling. That instinct.

Fight, flight, freeze.

I froze the same way whenever I was asked a question I couldn’t answer. I froze when TJ had reached for my hand.

He was right. Our fears were irrational. And they weren’t our fault.

The moment lasted only seconds, but it felt longer. Then, slowly, TJ looked down, unclenched his fists, and took a breath.

He walked back to me, exhaling as he sat down.

“Oohh, that was rough,” he muttered. He took another slow breath, centering himself, then gestured to me. “But I tried.”

He took another drag, exhaled, and smiled. “That’s what matters. That we both keep trying. You don’t give up, and I admire that. You could easily text me everything you want to say, but you don’t. The fact that you keep talking, even when you struggle, inspires me to keep trying, too.”

I stared at him.

He admires me?

Why?

He was the one who had just faced something terrifying—who had made himself uncomfortable to prove a point for me.

Warmth bloomed in my chest.

I thought back to the night TJ had given me his number, how he had reassured me that it was okay to text when I got stuck. But I rarely did. I always tried to push through, just like TJ had pushed through looking at the sky.

Yes, I tried.

Every single day, I confronted one of my worst fears.

A couple of days later, as I passed by the couch, TJ stopped me.

“I looked at the sky today.”

I froze, then beamed.

“You did?” My voice was light, joyful. “You really did?”

“Yep.” He chuckled. “I really did.”

My smile was so wide it almost hurt. “That’s amazing!”

Before I could say more, my brother called my name from the front hall.

“The girls and I are flying their kite. They wanna know if you’re coming outside with us.”

“God, I haven’t flown a kite in years,” TJ said, amused.

I hesitated. The memory of him standing in that yard, struggling against his fear, was still fresh in my mind.

“…No, thank you,” I said.

My brother shrugged. “Okay. We’ll be outside if you change your mind.”

As the front door closed, TJ looked at me. “You don’t have to stay in here with me. Go have fun.”

“But y-you c-can’t fly a k-kite. I feel b-b-bad leaving y—”

TJ’s stern look cut me off. Then he smiled, softening it.

“Just because I can’t do something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Don’t rob yourself of the opportunity.”

He patted my knee. I didn’t flinch.

“Go,” he said. “Enjoy every second of it. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

The sky stretched vast and endless, painted in shades of blue so rich they almost felt unreal. The midafternoon sun burned bright, a glowing fireball suspended in the heavens. I squinted against the glare, shielding my eyes as I looked across the street.

My brother stood there, holding the kite’s spool in his hand, the string disappearing into the open sky.

“Watch for cars!” he called.

I hesitated for only a second before checking both ways and stepping off the curb, my white cane guiding me across the brightness of the pavement. The girls zoomed past on their scooters, their laughter carried on the wind, free and unburdened. I smiled, watching them—so young, so fearless, so completely present in the moment.

I wished I still felt that way.

“Wanna try?” My brother’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I opened my mouth to decline, but then I looked up—and froze.

I could see the kite’s tail.

The realization struck hard. I hadn’t seen the stars in years. I couldn’t make out the shape of clouds anymore. But here I was, standing under the open sky, seeing something up there. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of movement against the blue—but it was there.

Still, I hesitated.

If I could see it, I could fly it. But could I see it well enough to keep it in the air? Could I trust myself not to let it crash, not to ruin it?

“Come on,” my brother pressed, his tone light.

I looked at the kite again. It was yellow—the color of warmth, of happiness. The color of the smile now creeping across my face.

In my head, I heard TJ’s voice.

Try.

I reached out, took the spool from my brother’s hands, and handed him my folded cane.

I was done being scared.

The moment the spool was in my grasp, I felt it—the tug of the string, the weight of the wind pulling against it. As long as I felt that tension, I knew the kite was still there, still soaring.

“Look at you, sis,” my brother said, grinning. “You’re flying a kite!”

I was. I really was.

“When was the last time you did this?”

I had to think. Like TJ, I hadn’t flown a kite in years. I hadn’t flown one since before I went legally blind.

“I th-think it was w-with you, Alisha, and the girls on the b-b—”

“On the beach?”

I nodded.

The girls had been so little back then, still in diapers, still clinging to our hands as they toddled across the sand. The memory flickered through me, bringing with it an unexpected pang of grief.

For a second, I felt the weight of what I’d lost pressing down, threatening to steal this moment away.

Then I looked at the kite tail.

I thought about TJ.

Enjoy. Every. Second.

I inhaled. Let the feeling settle. Then I smiled.

Yes. I would enjoy this. I wouldn’t let self-pity take it from me.

A sudden slackness in the string made my heart jolt.

“Uh-oh,” my brother said, pointing. “It’s starting to fall! Ya better save it!”

Panic surged through me, but instinct took over. I pulled the string in the opposite direction of the wind, feeling for the right amount of tension, waiting—there. The tug returned, strong and sure.

I had saved it.

“Great job, sis,” my brother said. “You got it back up!”

I barely heard him.

For the first time in years, I was focused on one thing. Not my vision, not my anxiety, not what I had lost—just this moment. The kite, the string pulling in my hands, the wind against my face, the warmth of the sun, the sound of my brother’s voice.

I was flying a kite.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt free.

I might not have been able to see the stars. I might not have been able to walk through the house at night without a flashlight.

But I could still fly a kite.

And that was enough.

Life is a lot like flying a kite. It soars and it falls, it dips and rises, but as long as we keep looking up at that big blue sky, we’ll be okay.