Chapter 1
Alina stumbled through the narrow cobblestone street, clutching her paintbrushes and a small, battered canvas in her trembling hands. The evening air was sharp, nipping at her cheeks and making her eyes sting, though the cold wasn’t the reason for the tears that blurred her vision. She had spent hours standing outside the bustling art gallery in the hopes of showing her work to the owner. But once again, the rejection had been swift and merciless.
"You're talented," the man had said, not even sparing her a glance after flipping through her work. "But you lack connections. Without a name, you'll get nowhere in this city."
Connections. A name. She had neither.
Her heart ached as she walked aimlessly, each step feeling heavier than the last. Home was not a place of solace. Her father, the only family she had left, had all but forgotten her existence. Ever since her mother passed away, he had remarried and built a new life—a new family that didn’t include her. Her stepmother, with her sharp tongue, and her step-sister, with her cruel, mocking smile, made it clear she was an outsider.
Her step-sister, Maya, had destroyed what little hope Alina had. When Alina had secured her first commission, Maya had sabotaged her work, splashing paint over her carefully crafted masterpiece. The client had walked away, disgusted, and word had spread. Her reputation was ruined before it even had a chance to grow.
She paused on a small bridge overlooking the river. The water beneath shimmered with the reflection of the moon, mocking her with its beauty. She leaned against the railing, gripping it tightly as despair swelled in her chest.
“Nobody,” she whispered to herself. “I have nobody.”
Her father’s dismissive words echoed in her mind, spoken so casually over dinner one night. “You’re old enough to fend for yourself, Alina. I have a family to think about now.” As if she wasn’t part of that family. As if she hadn’t lost her mother too.
She didn’t even notice the cart speeding down the narrow street behind her until it was too late. The driver yelled, but Alina was too lost in her thoughts to move. The next moments were a blur—a flash of bright lanterns, the sharp crack of wood against flesh, and the sensation of weightlessness as her body was hurled into the air.
She landed on the cold, wet stones with a sickening thud, her canvas and brushes scattering around her like forgotten relics. Pain exploded through her body, sharp and unrelenting, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her soul.
People gathered around, their faces blurred and voices muffled. Some shouted for help; others simply stared. Alina’s vision dimmed, and the world around her seemed to fade into an eerie silence.
As her blood pooled beneath her, she thought of her mother. The warmth of her embrace, the softness of her lullabies. She thought of the future she had dreamed of—the one where her paintings would hang in galleries, admired and celebrated.
But it was all gone now.
Her fingers twitched, reaching for her paintbrushes, scattered just out of reach. They had been her only companions, her only hope. A tear slipped down her cheek, mingling with the blood.
“I just… wanted to be loved,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The cold seeped into her bones, and the pain began to dull. Her vision grew darker, but in the distance, she thought she saw her mother’s face. Smiling. Reaching for her.
And then, there was nothing.
The night swallowed her whole, leaving behind only her shattered brushes, her ruined canvas, and the lingering scent of paint and despair.
__________________________________________
