Prologue
December 26th, 2015 | Myreah's Home
The night had a strange kind of quiet, the kind that makes you question if the world is holding its breath. Outside, the hum of the streetlight flickered against the window, casting faint amber waves across the ceiling.
Myreah sat at the edge of her bed, closing her journal with slow, thoughtful care. The day had been long but good—one of those rare days where the air felt lighter, where God’s grace seemed to fall fresh again. The kind of night she wished she could fold into paper and keep forever.
Smells of romance, promotion, and prosperity lingered in her nostrils.
She whispered softly into the stillness, “Thank You, Lord.” Then she smiled, almost shyly, as though the heavens might blush from her gratitude.
She reached for the lamp and tugged the chain. Click. Restful dimming folded in, soft and clean. But peace was fragile.
Pow. Pow. Pow.
The sound ripped through the night—glass, plaster, air—everything breaking at once. The lamp toppled, scattering light like blood. A scream caught in her throat before instinct dragged her to the floor.
The hardwood was cold against her cheek. Tiny splinters pressed into her palm as she crawled, chest tight, heart battering her ribs. Another shot. Then another. Each one louder than the last, like the devil himself was walking closer.
Her car alarm outside wailed into the dark, echoing through her bones. Somewhere in the chaos, she thought she heard someone yell her name, or maybe it was just the ghost of fear talking.
Her leg burned. She didn’t know if it was the glass, or the scrape, or adrenaline clawing its way through her veins. She pressed her body beneath the bed—small space, shallow breath. The air smelled of cedar, dust, and old secrets.
Her eyes darted toward the closet door. A single bullet had torn through it, splintering it wide open. She could see the glint of the small silver lockbox she kept hidden there.
A slow metallic scrape cut through the silence outside her window.
"Lord, be my defense." she whispered.
Her pulse thudded in her ears—boom, boom, boom—the rhythm of a cornered heart.
A shadow spilled across the wall, tall and heavy. The outline was unmistakable—broad shoulders, a limp in the left leg, the shadow of something dark in his hand.
Her breath hitched. The weight of memory crushed down on her chest.
She crawled to her closet, staying low and quiet, wearing a wistful look as she thought of how the quiet life she had once built was bleeding out with every echo of gunfire.
“You took my little girl!” A sinister shout from outside echoed through the house.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered, the words breaking before they finished.
She flattened on her back, gazing at the shelf, calculating the right time to move. Tears slipped into her hairline. Her hand trembled as she slowly rised and reached for the lockbox on the closet shelf.
Then—light. A flash so bright it swallowed color. A thunder that didn’t end. The picture frame fell from the wall.
And then–silence.
The house went dark, leaving the sharp glow of her terrified eyes.
