Reborn In Shadows: Through The Fire

By Maya Fisher

After the harrowing events in Jasper Hill, Miriam Ryder and Ava McCormick begin new lives under fresh identities in South Carolina, determined to build the quiet future they've dreamed of. But starting over isn't simple.

As Miri steps off hormone therapy to try to start a family with Ava, she grapples with the emotional toll of dysp

• Language: English
• Publisher: One-Legged Woman Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 11, 2025
• ISBN: 9798992346060

Maya Fisher

She is a debut author, independent publisher, and passionate storyteller who believes in the transformative power of words. As the founder of One-Legged Woman Publishing, Maya embodies resilience and creativity, channeling her personal journey into powerful narratives that inspire and connect readers.Maya's debut novel, Reborn In Shadows: From the Ashes, won Best LGBTQIA Fiction in the 2025 National Indie Excellence Awards and has been selected for inclusion in the Library of Congress, a prestigious recognition that cements its place among significant literary works. This gripping tale of survival, identity, and second chances features a strong, unforgettable protagonist, reflecting Maya's own experiences as a transgender woman and below-the-knee amputee. Through her writing, she shares bold and authentic stories that explore themes of reinvention, strength, and the pursuit of hope in the face of adversity.Beyond writing, Maya is a creative soul with a love for immersive hobbies. She enjoys building and painting miniatures, bringing tiny worlds to life with intricate details and vibrant colors. As a dedicated Dungeon Master, she guides her tabletop RPG players through epic adventures filled with mystery and excitement. Maya is also an avid gamer, always ready to explore digital worlds and tackle new challenges. In her free time, she indulges in various craft projects, constantly seeking new ways to express her creativity.With a deep commitment to representation and inclusivity, Maya created One-Legged Woman Publishing to take full control of the publishing process, producing works that challenge norms and celebrate individuality. From crafting compelling characters to overseeing every detail of her book's publication, Maya's hands-on approach reflects her dedication to delivering meaningful and impactful stories.When she's not immersed in her creative pursuits, Maya enjoys connecting with readers, sharing her journey, and championing diverse voices in the literary world. With Reborn In Shadows as the first step in her publishing career, Maya is excited to share her unique perspective and inspire readers worldwide."I've always been becoming who I am now..."- Maya Dawn Fisher

Book preview

Maya Fisher

Reborn In Shadows

Through The Fire

First published by One-Legged Woman Publishing LLC 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Maya Fisher

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Maya Fisher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Maya Fisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2025919839

Published by One-Legged Woman Publishing LLC in Nora, Virginia

First edition

ISBN: 979-8-9923460-6-0

Cover art by JD Brosius

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

For every disabled reader, and every reader in the LGBTQ+ community. This story is yours as much as mine — proof that we burn, we endure, and we are never alone.

I didn’t walk out of society unscarred. I walked out of society as me.

— Maya Fisher

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Welcome to Walnut Lake

Seven Hours to Midnight

The Hottest Pirate in South Carolina

Between Hormones and Heartbeats

Brady’s Shadow

The Empty Closet

No Injection Today

Ghost in Coveralls

The Cost of Being Seen

Game Night is Sacred

Vacuum-Sealed

The Hardest Stretch

Friendsgiving

Motion and Stillness

Observation Day

Edge of Collapse

Breaking and Mending

The Cold Has Teeth

The Hunger Inside

Destiny with Refills

The Shape of Joy

Fragile and Fierce

Ninety Days

Lighthouse in the Fog

Capybaras and Other Miracles

Leverage

Background Noise

The Date No One Expected

Before the Universe Gets Another Swing

The Quiet Beyond the Hedgerow

Whispers in the Halls

Omertà

Blueprints

A Year of Fire and Paint

The Final Entry

Not Her Name

The Martyr

Not Even in Death

Flare in a Minefield

Four Days

Scrubbed

My Girls

Thirty-One

The Thirteenth Pencil

Sealed Authority

Preparation

The Clerk’s Hand

Drawn on Glass

Flutter

The Pressure Drop

The Quiet Field

Three

Two

One

The Red Circle

With Reluctance

What Remains

The Moment You Lived

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Maya Fisher

Preface

Dates matter.

From the Ashes was released on March 31, 2025 — International Transgender Day of Visibility. That was no accident. Miriam Ryder’s story is about resilience, survival, and refusing to disappear. Releasing her first chapter into the world on a day that celebrates trans visibility gave that meaning extra weight.

Now Through the Fire arrives on October 11, 2025 — National Coming Out Day. It’s also the day the audiobook of From the Ashes comes to life. Coming out is never a single event. It is a continuous act of courage, and often, an act of survival. This book is about what happens when you’ve been seen, when you can’t go back into hiding, and when the fire still comes for you.

And this story isn’t finished. The third book in The Ryder Chronicles will release on March 31, 2026 — once again on International Transgender Day of Visibility. Because visibility is not a moment. It’s a movement. It’s a declaration that we are still here, telling our stories on our own terms.

These release dates are not just marketing choices. They are deliberate markers, bound to the struggle and celebration of LGBTQ+ life. They are reminders that every time we tell our truth, whether in a book or in the act of living, we are refusing to be erased.

Acknowledgments

To my partner Misty and our daughter Madison — you remain my anchor and my fire. Book one was dedicated to you, and nothing changes that truth: you are the reason these stories exist. Your love keeps me steady, even when the world feels like it’s burning around me.

To Deana Neibert— your voice breathed new life into From the Ashes and carried it into the ears and hearts of readers. You’ve taken Miriam’s journey beyond the page, and I’m endlessly grateful for the heart and talent you bring to these stories.

To JD Brosius — our friendship has been solid since 2018, long before book covers or publishing. Your art is etched into my life — not only on these covers and the walls of my home, but on my skin itself. That bond matters more than any project. I’m grateful that you’re both my artist and my friend, and I couldn’t imagine moving forward in this journey without your work walking beside my words.

To Roy Jesse — thank you for always taking the time to read my work, to offer your insight, and to stand as a champion for these stories. Your encouragement has meant more than I can ever say, and your belief in me continues to fuel my confidence as a writer.

And to my community — the disabled readers, the LGBTQ+ readers, the ones who look into these pages searching for reflections of themselves: this is for you. Every scar, every fight, every moment of survival is written with you in mind. Thank you for reminding me that none of us walk through the fire alone.

Prologue

October in Southwest Virginia has that unmistakable crispness. Westley noticed it as he stepped from his car. He straightened his maroon tie, smoothed his dark gray suit, clutched his black leather briefcase, and closed the car door. Not a hair out of place. Perfect. He pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose while checking his reflection in the driver’s side window. His slicked-back dark hair bore the slightest traces of gray, and his trim figure suggested a rigid discipline.

He turned from his 2024 Obsidian Black Metallic Mercedes-Benz S580 4MATIC with its black leather seats and brushed aluminum accents and faced his destination. Red Onion Prison. For the worst of the worst.

Ironically, Red Onion State Prison stood just outside Jasper Hill in Southwest Virginia. It was a level 6 supermax facility housing some of the most dangerous inmates in the United States of America. And Westley’s client was one of them.

Westley Grant was a powerful attorney, and his only client was Mario De Luca. Westley didn’t need more clients because Mario De Luca paid him excessively well for his services. He glanced at the Rolex on his left wrist. 9:46 AM. Good, he thought, as long as these ignorant corrections officers don’t dawdle, I will be able to start the meeting promptly at 10:00 AM.

As Westley approached the front door to the prison, a guard opened the door, and the warden strode onto the sidewalk at a brisk pace to greet him. The warden raised his hand to wave to Westley. How unprofessional. This clown thinks his Southern hospitality is an acceptable means to conduct himself in a prison, of all places.

Westley reached the warden, and instead of stopping, he extended his right hand to shake the warden’s while not slowing his pace. "Keep up, Warden."

Westley didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

Hello, Mr. Grant, sir. I’m Warden Stossel, William Stossel. Welcome to Red Onion. The warden nearly tripped over himself as he attempted to turn his body to meet Westley’s handshake, clearly struggling to shift his momentum back in the direction he came from.

Mr. Stossel. Is my client ready for the meeting?

I… that is… yes. Yes, he should be in the visitation area now. But, surely, you can spare a few minutes for a discussion-

Mr. Stossel, Westley stated firmly as he continued walking, releasing his firm grip from the warden’s sweaty palm. My meeting is scheduled with my client for 10:00 AM. It’s 9:52 AM. I don’t have time to chat about your prison or the humanitarian work you do with the inmates in your rehabilitation efforts, nor do I want to discuss the weather conditions. I am allotted fifteen minutes to meet with my client, and I will not be delayed by you and have my time reduced because you want to talk about the company jack-o’-lantern carving contest, since today happens to be Halloween. Are we clear?

Warden Stossel hadn’t realized he had ceased walking. He also wasn’t aware that his mouth was agape. Nor did he notice two of his corrections officers stifling laughter as they escorted Westley into the prison to the sign-in desk. William Stossel stood on the sidewalk entrance of the prison, and he looked up at the unnaturally blue October sky.

Forms signed. Escort in place. Westley followed, his shoes clicking a tempo of precision across the polished floor. It’s very… clinical in here. Highly polished concrete floors met stark white walls. The doors and trim were blue, and yellow lines designated areas for inmates along the corridors. The guard led Westley through one final door into the visitation room at 9:58 AM.

The visitation room matched the rest of Red Onion—clinical and cold. White walls, polished concrete floors, harsh overhead fluorescent lights, and vibrant blue trim. Along the far side, six visitation booths sat in a row, each separated by bulletproof glass and equipped with a battered black phone.

Westley entered with his usual poise, scanning the room until his eyes landed on his client. Mario De Luca sat on the other side of the glass with unnerving composure, as if he were in a boardroom rather than a supermax facility.

Mario was a towering man in his mid-60s, 6’3", with thick gray hair slicked back from his sharp widow’s peak, a well-groomed beard, and piercing ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable—save for a smirk that twitched like a muscle remembering old work.

Westley took his seat. Neither man spoke until both phones were lifted.

Mario’s tone was low and commanding. Speak.

Despite the Plexiglas and a correctional officer nearby, this wasn’t their first exchange under surveillance. Twenty-five years of partnership had refined the art of saying everything while appearing to say nothing.

Westley began smoothly. The contractor called. One of the support beams is compromised.

Mario leaned forward slightly. Then reinforce it. Quietly. No sense in tearing down the whole house over one weak beam.

We’ll need the inspector to revise his assessment. He’s… hesitant. Worried about his reputation.

Then remind him of the blackout, Mario said. The one that hit his neighborhood a few years back. He exhaled, fogging the glass. The shadows remember.

Westley drummed his fingers once. And the domino?

Mario’s smirk thinned. Tap her. Not too hard—just enough to wobble the line. If she’s balanced where I think she is… she’ll topple. They always do—for family.

Westley adjusted his tie. And the judge?

Invite her to the fundraiser, Mario said smoothly. Let her know we still serve the finest wine in town.

Then came the shift—fluid, deliberate.

Westley lowered his voice. The Palmetto contractor followed through.

Mario’s eyes glinted. And the foundation?

Stable. An unexpected tenant moved in. New paint, new name…same bones.

Does the tenant know we still hold the deed?

Not yet. She’s decorating the parlor like she owns it. Doesn’t realize the land is borrowed.

Mario’s tone hardened. And the architect?

She left out key specs. Thought no one would notice.

His jaw flexed. Why?

Insurance, Westley replied. She held onto the blueprint. Thought it might buy her something later.

She forgets who poured the concrete, Mario muttered. And the inspector?

Still dragging his feet. Concerned about exposure.

Then remind him of the blackout. The one where his wife’s oxygen machine failed.

Mario exhaled again. The committee chair?

Still sipping from the bottle we sent.

Mario gave a satisfied nod. Then keep his glass full. He’ll vote accordingly.

A breath passed between them before Westley smoothly shifted gears again.

Unrelated build site. Northern Ridge. Contractor says one of the beams is buckling.

Mario’s brow twitched. Material flaw?

Sabotage. Internal. Someone wants the whole house to fall.

Mario’s smirk returned. Then start with a single brick. Tap it. See what else moves.

The domino?

Not yet. She might tip herself if the wind changes.

Inspector on this one?

Different jurisdiction. New face. Less history, less leverage.

And the judge?

Mario’s voice turned syrupy. Invite her to the tasting room. Let her sample the ’95 reserve. Remind her of the vintage she swore she’d never forget.

A pause.

Westley tapped the glass once. No sudden storms?

No, Mario murmured. Just a shift in pressure. Let the air grow heavy. Let them feel it in their bones.

Westley nodded once, hung up the phone, and stood as the guard opened the door. He offered no parting words. He didn’t need to.

Mario remained seated, phone still in hand, eyes fixed on his reflection in the glass—and the empire he still believed was his.

Then, softly, to no one but himself, he muttered, Even the best homes collapse when the architect builds on ash.

Welcome to Walnut Lake

Miriam Ryder sat on the porch swing of her and Ava McCormick’s new home. She took a drag from her cigarette. I wonder how many trick-or-treaters we’ll get tonight? It is Halloween, after all. She contemplated while taking a sip of coffee. Just two weeks ago, she’d sat in a federal courtroom in Pittsburgh, watching the De Luca family fall. Now, sipping coffee on the porch swing, it already felt like another lifetime.

She looked out beyond her yard. Everything felt too quiet, too still—like the calm before something cracks. Their new street curled into a quiet cul-de-sac, boxed in by neatly trimmed hedges and watchful neighbors. We’ve been here one week in Walnut Lake. Everyone seems friendly enough. Thompson could have been a little more honest about the lake, though. He oversold that.

Walnut Lake was a subdivision in the suburbs of Spartanburg, South Carolina. Miriam and Ava had been relocated just a week ago, after her identity was compromised during her testimony against Mario and Marco De Luca, and their employee, Miri’s former bookie, Leo Rossi.

Miri raised the mug to her lips—then froze. Gladys Whitmer was already halfway across the cul-de-sac, storming toward the driveway like a woman on a mission. Miri politely waved her right hand to gesture hello. Gladys continued to walk in a huff, ignoring Miri’s wave. She stopped short of ascending the four steps onto the porch, instead balling her fists and placing them on her hips. Ahem.

Miri gave an inquisitive glance and went back to sipping her coffee. She avoided eye contact as she looked into the neighboring yard. Is there something I can help you with, Gladys?

Is your roommate home? I need to speak with her. There it was. Roommate. She doesn’t acknowledge our relationship.

I don’t have a roommate, Gladys. I have a fiancé. Gladys scoffed. She wore her mask of condescension proudly, as if it were a pageant ribbon on her dress. I’m right here, what do you want?

Your grass. It’s too tall. As a board member of the Homeowners’ Association, I would like to remind you of the mandatory lawn maintenance requirements. If it isn’t mowed and the grass clippings removed today, you will be fined $150.00, and I will be forced to inform your landlord of the violation.

Gladys, we just moved here last week. We don’t even have a lawnmower. Nora hasn’t started her new job yet, and as you can see, I’m an amputee, so my employment opportunities are limited. The grass can wait, as far as I’m concerned.

I hate that WITSEC has forced us to use new names. Nora Monroe—Ava’s new public identity—sounded too polished, too fabricated. But it was safer this way. Safer for both of us. "Ahem, Marissa. I wasn’t finished. Are you even listening to me?"

Marissa Raynor was Miri’s new public identity. She liked it better than Nora Monroe, but it still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t her name, it didn’t feel like home. Miri looked Gladys in the eyes and responded curtly. I’ll hire a lawn service today, Gladys. It will be my top priority.

The front door opened, and Ava emerged carrying a cup of coffee, hips swaying with deliberate ease. She wore her new hairstyle with unapologetic flair—gone was the long, fiery red hair. In its place: a bubblegum pink pixie cut with the left side shaved, the remaining strands tousled just enough to whisper rebellion.

She stepped onto the porch, dropped a kiss to Miri’s lips—slow, wet, and lingering—and let her hand drift beneath Miri’s robe for a brief but unmistakable caress. Miri gasped softly into her mouth.

Mmmmm, gods, you taste like hazelnut, Ava murmured, her voice a low purr. Then, louder, And I’m definitely sneaking a sip of whatever’s heating up between your legs later.

In the yard, a choking noise erupted from Gladys Whitmer, followed by the sound of wind chimes clinking in the morning breeze.

Ava didn’t look her way. She sipped her coffee with a smirk, then turned slightly—just enough for her voice to carry.

Something wrong, Gladys? she asked sweetly. You act like you’ve never seen two women in love before.

Miri was trembling with laughter, her face buried in Ava’s shoulder.

Ava leaned in and added, "Or maybe you have, and that’s the real problem."

Gladys let out a sputtering noise that sounded halfway between a hiss and a prayer. Her face turned the shade of an eggplant, her body trembled as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head. Her mouth contorted in a way that Miri was impressed that her speech was intelligible as she spoke. Let me tell you something! I’m a board member of the HOA, and we don’t allow that kind of public display around here. We won’t tolerate-

Ava cut in. "There’s the key word, tolerate. Let me tell you something, Gladys. It’s 2024. Gay marriage is legal. Marissa and I are engaged. We’re on our own property, enjoying our mid-morning coffee, and we shared a kiss. We’re not parading anything. So please, if it bothers you so much, you can leave."

Gladys shot an angry look at both Miri and Ava, then turned on her heels and stormed down the driveway back to her own home, muttering under her breath and shaking her head the entire way.

What did that cranky hag want? Ava asked as she lit a cigarette. She turned to face Miri and admired her new shorter haircut. Miri’s auburn brown hair was now a dark brown and cut just above her shoulders. Ava thought it was very elegant.

Apparently, our grass is too tall, Miriam replied, lighting another cigarette before blowing the smoke out slowly. She said if we didn’t cut it today, we’d be subject to a fine of $150.00.

Jesus, we just moved in last week. We’ll hire a lawn service later, I guess. Ava looked at her phone; it was 10:06 AM. So, we should go to the grocery store and get more candy for trick-or-treaters. I have no idea how many we’ll have.

Miriam looked wide-eyed at Ava, her mouth half-opened. Ava Marie McCormick, we have twenty bags of assorted candy bars, suckers, gummies, and other candy. It’s absolutely enough.

Eighteen and a half, Ava replied while giggling. I may or may not have helped myself.

Shit. Then make that seventeen bags, I have been eating some, too. Miri laughed. Ava leaned in and snuggled next to Miri, pulling her feet up and folding them behind her on the swing.

So, are you still thinking about getting a part-time job? Ava took another sip of coffee. I start teaching Monday at Dorman. I hope the kids like me. But it will take time to get used to being called Miss Monroe. I don’t feel like… me. I feel like I’m pretending to be a facsimile of myself.

I feel the same way. It’s like I put my true self back in the closet and I’m presenting as someone I’m not again. She took a deep drag from her cigarette. As for a job, I’m thinking about it. I could use some hobby money, since Thompson has reduced my stipend.

U.S. Marshal Arthur Thompson was Miriam’s case handler. He was based in Pittsburgh and had been lenient with Miri for most of her first year in WITSEC, but after she bungled her testimony, despite the conviction, he had tightened his oversight of the couple. Miri’s stipend was drastically reduced, and she had check-ins every 48 hours.

Miriam looked at the various houses in the cul-de-sac. Every house but Gladys Whitmer’s was vibrantly decorated with skeletons, tombstones, spider webs, bats, carved jack-o’-lanterns, and more. In a few hours, it would be dark, and she anticipated kids in costumes going door to door, navigating decorations and thrills for the promise of candy.

Tomorrow we have our appointments, are you ready? Ava asked, exhaling a stream of smoke as she gently reminded Miri.

I’m nervous. I won’t lie, but I want this for us. It’s just going to be a gigantic adjustment and severely complicated. But, if it’s possible, I’ll do everything in my power to give us a baby. She leaned her head to meet Ava’s at her shoulder and kissed her.

We’ve got your endo at 9:30. Fertility specialist at 11. Think we’ll survive all the poking and prodding? I just hope everything goes well. Ava sounded hopeful.

Miriam knew what Ava was thinking. She was thinking the same thing herself. I’ve been on HRT since last July. Almost a year and a half. Will I even be able to produce sperm again? What if too much time has elapsed? What if I can’t give Ava the child we both want?

Miri glanced across the street and caught the faintest movement behind a curtain—just a flick, like someone letting it fall. Watching? Probably just another nosy neighbor. But the unease crawled up her spine anyway. Stop it, Miri. There is no way anyone knows who you are. It’s nothing. We’re safe here.

She kissed Ava once more and cradled her arm around her as they sat there on their cherished porch swing, contemplating their lives together.

Seven Hours to Midnight

At 5:16 PM on Halloween, Francesca Bianchi sat alone in the visitation room at FMC Lexington Satellite Camp, tapping her manicured nails against the dull gray table. They hadn’t let her keep her rings or her lashes, but her attitude remained intact. She wore the standard khaki pants and pale green shirt of a federal inmate, but she held her chin high like she was still walking the runway at Milan.

The satellite camp was minimal security, but prison was prison. The floors smelled of bleach and bad food, and the humming fluorescents never turned off entirely. It had been seventy days since her arrest, and Francesca had quickly learned that dignity here was currency—and isolation, her punishment. No one looked her in the eye anymore. Not the guards. Not the other women. Like they knew something. Like they felt something.

A correctional officer opened the door and stepped aside without a word. Francesca didn’t need to ask. She recognized the rhythm of Westley Grant’s footsteps before she saw him—measured, expensive, smug. A shark in a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit.

Westley, she said coolly, sitting straighter. You’re late.

He checked his watch as he approached, then removed his gloves one finger at a time with infuriating calm. You’re fifteen minutes early, Francesca. I’m exactly on time.

She sneered, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Did you come to give me good news? Maybe negotiate my early release? Or did the Don send you to remind me who really owns my soul?

Westley smiled, but there was nothing kind behind it. He sat across from her without a word, set his briefcase on the floor, and folded his hands on the table.

Francesca leaned in slightly. I’ve been cooperating. They’ve already shaved time off my sentence. If you’re here to threaten me, save your breath. I’ve said everything I’m going to say.

That’s the problem, Westley said, his tone like velvet over broken glass. "You didn’t say everything."

Her blood ran cold.

Westley slid a single photograph across the table. It was grainy, but unmistakable. A woman with shoulder-length dark auburn hair and a prosthetic leg sat on a porch swing beside a pink-haired woman, both smiling, coffee mugs in hand. The trees behind them were Southern: live oaks and crepe myrtles. The timestamp on the bottom corner read: 10/31 – 09:58:14 AM.

Francesca didn’t speak. Her hand hovered over the photo, but didn’t touch it. Her mask cracked just slightly.

You knew, Westley said softly. "You knew exactly who Gabriel Wilson became. And you omitted it. Why?"

I protected her, she said, finally letting the word fall out like a secret. "She rebuilt her life. You don’t understand—he died a long time ago. What rose from that… that wasn’t leverage. That was a person."

Westley’s eyes narrowed. You don’t get to moralize. Not after breaking into her home with a handgun and a feeling of vengeance.

I never would’ve gone through with it! Francesca snapped. You know that.

"But the attempt was enough.