The Beginning
Clouds churned like wolves in the sky, their bellies swollen with thunder. Lightning tore open the heavens as my body sat in the back seat of the silver car, my face turned toward the glass. My breath fogged up the window, but I didn’t wipe it. I just stared—out into the storm.
I’ve always hated the rain.
Not just because it soaks through shoes or chills bones, but because it remembers. It remembers things I try so hard to forget. The rain, to me, feels like grief—slow, quiet, and relentless.
It was raining the day when I was fifteen and my father handed me money and told me to go buy him booze. No please. No explanation. Just a grunt and a glare like I was already late.
Fifteen. No ID. No clue how to even ask for it. But I did it. Because saying no to him? That was never an option.
I came back soaked in rain, holding a dripping brown bag like some fucking servant. And that’s when I saw her.
Half-naked. Some stranger. Laughing in my house. Sitting on my couch. While my father didn’t even flinch.
He looked at me like I was in the way. Like I was a fly buzzing too close. “Step outside,” he said, barely meeting my eyes. “We’re busy.”
Busy. He meant fucking.
He meant he couldn’t be a father right now. He meant I should go stand in the goddamn storm while he got off on whatever he thought love looked like.
So I stood there. Outside. In a thunderstorm that felt more human than the man who put me there.
No shoes. No shelter. The rain poured like it had fists. Like it wanted to beat the shame out of me.
Every clap of thunder felt like a scream I couldn’t let out. Every drop on my skin felt like someone spitting on me. And inside—he was laughing. She was moaning. They were warm. They were fed. They had a bed.
And I was just the daughter who brought the liquor.
That night, something in me died. Not innocence. That was gone long before. Not love. I don’t even think I knew what that word meant anymore.
What died was the last thread that tied me to calling him “Dad.” Because dads don’t do that. Monsters do.
It was raining again, when I was running
But it wasn’t freedom I was chasing.
It was pain.
Raw. Relentless. Unforgiving.
They stuffed thorns in my boots.
Sharp as knives. Cold as death.
Each step was a scream tearing through my bones.
My feet bled—fountain red, spilling into my boots, soaking through the white like a scream made flesh.
I wanted to stop.
But stopping meant giving up.
So I kept going.
With each agonizing step, the thorns drove deeper, ripping my skin, shattering me piece by piece.
I fell into the sports room—my sanctuary turned prison.
Bloodied hands clutching shattered limbs, I sat alone with the storm inside me.
No tears came.
Not yet.
Because the world wasn’t ready to see me break.
Then they came.
Predators cloaked as girls.
Their eyes glittered with satisfaction, their voices sick with fake pity.
“Poor girl,” they sneered.
Like my suffering was their entertainment.
Like my agony was a game.
I peeled off my boots—blood and pain dripping from my skin.
I shoved the boots back on.
Slow. Deliberate.
My broken leg flexed like a weapon.
“Look at me,” I whispered, voice raw and ragged, shaking with rage. “Are you happy now? Are you satisfied? Did you enjoy tearing me apart?”
My blood pooled beneath me—warm, sticky, relentless.
Behind my burning eyes, tears screamed to fall.
But I swallowed them.
Because I was more than their victim.
Even they recoiled.
“She’s weird,” one said, backing away like I was a ghost dragging chains.
The door slammed shut.
And the silence—
The silence shattered me.
I let the flood break loose—
Not tears.
But a devastating storm of grief and fury and raw, bleeding pain that shook me to my core.
Because that day—
I wasn’t just broken.
I was shredded.
Ripped open in a world that wanted me silent and dead.
I was blood and bone and fire and silence.
It was painful. Really.
And it rained again. The day my heart shattered for the first time.
I brought my best friend home. The first person I ever let into my world. And my father smiled — said I should bring her snacks. Because she was special.
I should’ve known. God, I should’ve known. But I didn’t. I just smiled back and ran to the nearest snack store like some fool trying to play “daughter” in a house that had no “father.”
When I came back— The door creaked.
And there she was.
In his bed.My best friend. My father. My fucking world flipped inside out.
She didn’t even look surprised.
Just… calm.
Like it wasn’t betrayal. Like it wasn’t sex. Like it was Tuesday.
I smiled. Because that’s what broken people do. They smile when they’re being destroyed.
That moment didn’t break me. It burned me. And something inside turned to ash, so silent, so final— Even my tears forgot how to fall.
Next day, it hit.
The whole school whispered in corners, stared with pity-soaked daggers.
My best friend had told them.He raped her. And I… helped.
They said I knew. Said I stood by. Said I brought her to him.
And my chest— It didn’t just ache. It imploded.
The school wanted me gone. Expelled. Discarded like the stench of his sins had settled in my skin.
But she stopped them.
“I don’t want my best friend to leave, ma’am. She made a grave mistake, but… I forgive her.”
Forgive me. Like I was the abuser. Like I wasn’t the one bleeding on both ends of a blade someone else swung.
And the teachers? They called her brave. “What a heart,” they whispered. “Such grace to forgive.”
And I stood there, being praised for surviving my own crucifixion.
Now no one talks to me. The teachers flinch when I raise my hand. The students beg me— Beg me— not to invite them home.
As if I’m a virus. As if the violence lives in my blood. As if the rape came from my shadow.
And maybe they’re right.
Because I would be scared too.
Not of me.
But of what this world does to the ones who carry scars that don’t look pretty.
So, no—I do not like the rain. And yet, as the car hums softly beneath me, the world outside is painted in it. Sheets of grey fall from the sky, tapping against the windshield like a thousand fingers trying to get in.
“Rosie,” says a small voice beside me.
I turn. Ellar, just ten years old, stares out the window with eyes too wide for someone who’s already seen too much. His golden curls are stuck to his forehead, damp with rain and innocence that somehow survived the world’s worst intentions. In his lap, he clutches a worn-out stuffed toy like it’s a shield against everything that’s tried to break us.
We aren’t bound by blood. But God—we’re sewn together by something fiercer.
I met him when I was still in high school, dragging my tired limbs through every miserable day like they owed me something. I used to work late shifts at a corner store, fluorescent lights flickering above aisles filled with more regrets than groceries.
He was five.
And every day, without fail, he waited outside the store. Little legs dangling off the curb. Tiny hands folded in his lap. Eyes searching for me like I was someone worth waiting for.
Whenever I asked him why he stayed, he gave the same answer.
“I don’t want you to be scared.”
That’s it. That’s all. A child worrying about the girl no one else in the world even noticed. A boy standing guard over a soul that everyone else had already stepped on.
He never asked for anything.
Sometimes, he brought me flowers—dandelions with roots still attached. Sometimes, a half-eaten sandwich he saved from his own school lunch. Little offerings from the smallest hands, just to say I’m here.
And one day, I broke. The tears I buried beneath my tongue, behind my teeth, under every fake smile—they came out like a flood.
The next thing I remember, I was holding him. And without signing a single paper, I adopted him.
Not legally. Not formally. But in the kind of way the universe understands.
I’m not his mother. He’s not my son. But we are each other’s reason. Each other’s shelter. Each other’s chance at a life we weren’t supposed to have.
The past? It can rot.
All I care about now is rewriting Ellar’s future. Because he saved me without even knowing it. And now it’s my turn.
“Rosie,” he says again, tugging me back to the present with a voice that always sounds too soft for this world.
“Look,” he says, pointing.
I follow his gaze.
Outside the fogged-up window, in the downpour that blurs all else, stands a woman. Cloaked in crimson. Hood drawn low. She doesn’t move. Just stands there—still, like she was painted onto the storm.
She holds a basket of roses. Their red so vivid it almost hurts to look. They don’t wilt. They don’t bend in the rain. They look alive.
She raises one hand and knocks. Not loud. But it echoes anyway.
Knock. Knock.
I roll the window down halfway, the cold breath of the storm spilling into the car like a ghost.
“Buy a rose?” she asks.
Her voice isn’t warm. Isn’t cold. It’s... clean. Like silk soaked in secrets and spun through a whisper.
Something about her itches at the edge of memory.
“Do I know you?” I ask, squinting into the veil of her hood.
“Buy a rose,” she repeats, smile curling like smoke.
Beside me, Ellar leans forward, clutching his toy tighter. “Rosie...” he whispers. “She looks like a witch.”
I laugh, but it dies halfway in my throat. “You’ve been reading too many fantasy books.”
“But she does,” he insists, eyes wide. “She even has the hood.”
“She might be a good witch,” I say, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
He doesn’t blink. “No such thing,” he says, voice low now. Just facts. Like he’s seen things I haven’t.
The woman’s eyes don’t leave mine.
And something inside me twists—like I’ve heard this scene before in a story I should’ve run from.
I glance back at her. Her hood is old, fraying at the edges. Her dress is stitched in places, worn like she’s lived many hard days. She can’t be more than twenty-one. Her hands, though—rough, weathered—tell a story of their own. Perhaps she feeds a family. Perhaps she feeds none.
“How much for a rose?” I ask.
She didn’t name a price. She didn’t count coins.
Her lips curl into a strange smile. No teeth, just shadow.
Ellar whispers, “See?! She smiled without showing her teeth. Just like witches do...”
I almost laugh again, but then she speaks—softly, poetically, like reciting an old spell:
“When the clock strikes twelve, petals shall fall, And the rose will bloom beneath rain’s first call. No thorn shall prick, no hand shall bleed, Unless love forgets what love does need. But beware the bloom of scarlet red, For every petal knows the dead.”
For a moment, I forget the cold. I forget the rain.
“Give me one,” I say.
She reaches into her basket and hands me a rose. It’s perfect—deep crimson, petals soft as whispers, no thorns.
I search my purse. “Wait, how much did you say again?”
But when I look up, she’s gone.
Gone—like smoke in wind. No footsteps. No shadow. Just the sound of rain and the rose in my hand.
“I think she really is a witch, Ellar,” I said.
I glanced at Ellar. He was gone.
One moment, his small hand was clutching mine, warm and real. The next, the seat beside me was empty, the toy dropped quietly on the floor. No scream. No warning. Just a silence that shattered the noise of the rain.
I ran outside. The rain slapped my skin like punishment. My eyes darted left, right, anywhere. Nothing. No Ellar. No red cloak. No sign of a child who was mine in every way that mattered.
He was gone. Again.
Because those fucking kidnappers are cowards. They can’t touch me, so they take him. My boy. My heart ripped out.
They think they can break me by breaking him. But they’re dead wrong.
Every second he’s gone, my blood boils. My fists clench. My mind burns with a fire so violent it could melt steel.
I want to find those filthy pieces of shit, rip them apart with my bare hands, make them bleed. Make them scream.
But rage isn’t enough.
I need him back.
The rain pounded like a relentless drum, cold and unforgiving.
Where did he go?
Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to breathe. Breathe, Rosie. Breathe. If he was taken—he would’ve left me something. Ellar is smart. Smarter than me. Smarter than this world.
I scanned the mud-slick road. Tire marks. Thick, fresh. Leading away, dragged like a secret. I ran. I followed. They curved like a question mark toward a fork—three roads splitting like veins from the heart of my nightmare.
I froze. Which one? God, tell me which one.
My mind spiraled, blankness spreading like frostbite. And then—
His voice, soft and stubborn, rose from memory:
“Rosie, if I ever got kidnapped again, just know... there will be signs. Nature will show you the way.”
I used to laugh. “Stop reading those weird fantasy books, Ellar.”
We’d giggle, mock-fight, collapse in a heap of teasing.
But now? Now, I would believe in any damn thing if it brought him back.
I took a deep breath. Closed my eyes. Come on, Rosie. Don’t see. Observe. That’s what he said, remember?
I focused. The mud. The smell. The cold. The tire marks curved slightly left. But so did the wind. And then—
A scream. A woman. A flurry of barks. She was wrestling a golden retriever near the roadside. The dog held something in its teeth. She was scolding it, trying to pry it free.
My heart stopped.
A shoe. His shoe. Worn. Mud-stained. Torn at the lace.
ELLAR.
The tears came, hot and wild. I ran to her like a madwoman. “Where—where did he find this?”
She blinked, startled. Then pointed toward a dark alley, one of the three paths.
Of course she did. Of course the wind, the dog, the universe chose this one. The nature signs were real.
I’m coming, Ellar. I don’t care if it’s a witch or a monster or the entire world that took you.
I’m coming.
I tore into the alley like a wild beast unleashed.
There they were—those fucking monsters—holding him down like he was nothing but a broken toy.
I didn’t hesitate.
My fist slammed into the first bastard’s face with the force of a freight train. The crack of bone echoed, and his head snapped back like a rag doll.
He staggered, but I was already on the second.
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the grimy brick wall, feeling ribs crush beneath my hands. He gasped, eyes wide with shock—and then fear.
I ripped his shirt, clawed at his neck like a rabid animal.
Behind me, the man stomping on Ellar turned. His eyes met mine—full of hate and arrogance.
He didn’t know who he was dealing with.
I charged, shoulder-butting him hard enough to send him crashing down on the wet pavement. His breath wheezed out of him.
But I wasn’t done.
I grabbed a jagged piece of broken glass from the ground.
“Any more hands on him and you’ll regret the rest of your miserable life,” I snarled, pressing it to his throat.
He trembled, blood dripping from his split lip.
The others tried to surround me. I spun, fists flying like lightning—each strike a promise of pain.
One screamed as I broke his jaw with a savage uppercut.
Another went down, clutching his bleeding nose as I slammed my boot into his gut.
Ellar’s whimpers tore through my rage, fueling me.
I was a storm of fury, and they were nothing but leaves caught in my wake—shredded, broken, and begging for mercy they didn’t deserve.
By the time it was over, the alley was a battlefield drenched in blood and shattered bodies.
Ellar was safe.
But I was gone—replaced by something darker.
Something that would never let this happen again.
I grabbed Ellar’s small hand like it was the only lifeline left in this collapsing world.
The rose still clutched in my other hand felt like a cruel joke — beautiful, fragile, utterly useless in this nightmare.
“Are you okay?” My voice cracked, barely holding itself together.
Ellar swallowed hard, his lips trembling. “They… they took someone else too.”
My chest slammed shut, a punch to the gut. “Who?” I barely breathed.
He pointed, voice barely a whisper, toward the broken silhouette beneath the flickering streetlight.
He lay there—collapsed on the filthy pavement—his body a brutal canvas of pain and cruelty.
Blood dripped from a savage gash across his temple, mixing with the rain and grime, carving dirty rivers down his pale face. One eye was swollen shut, a grotesque balloon of purple and black. The other eye, bloodshot and glassy, struggled to stay open, reflecting the raw, unbearable agony etched deep into his soul.
His cheek was a shattered map of bruises—black, blue, and angry red—like a violent storm had clawed its rage into his skin. His ribs heaved unevenly, each breath a laborious battle, the jagged edges of broken bones just beneath his torn, soaked shirt.
Ellar’s voice broke through the suffocating silence. “He tried to save me. They… they stomped on him. Kicked him . He’s… he’s bleeding.”
I swallowed hard, the world tilting sideways.
Six feet tall, half-broken, and beautiful in a way only sadness could sculpt. His hair was soaked, his lips bloodied. But it was his eyes — God, his eyes — the color of a storm-swollen river, glowing under the streetlight like they held every sorrow she ever knew. The moment I saw them, something inside me shattered.
And I recognized him.
Ocean-blue eyes.
The guy I met on a bus eight years ago.
My heart shatters the moment I see him.
Eight years of silence, of holding my breath, of carrying a memory like it was the only thing keeping me alive — and now he’s here, broken, beaten, lying in the dark like he’s already half gone.
I want to scream, to cry, to fall apart right there and then, but I don’t.
Because I know if I do, I’ll never be able to pick myself up again.
His eyes — those same eyes that once pulled me back from the edge — are glassy, lost in a world I can’t reach.
I feel every broken bone, every bruise, every drop of blood like it’s inside me.
My chest feels like it’s being crushed, my throat tightens, and the tears come — uncontrollable, burning, desperate.
The raw ache of years spent waiting, hoping, dreaming of this moment crashes down like a wave, and I’m drowning again — only this time, it’s from pain, from helplessness, from the terrifying weight of what’s to come.
The man who once said a sentence that brought me back to life. The man I built my empire for. The man I earned my money for. My first love.
Tears flooded my eyes.
I knelt beside him. He whimpered and slowly sat up, his injuries making him wince. The alley was silent. The man with the river eyes lay still, then slowly pushed himself up with shaking limbs. He met my gaze. He tried to speak.
“Thank You”
I should’ve said, It’s okay. Or You don’t need to thank me. Or even No problem.
But I didn’t.
I took a deep breath, held the rose between us, and said—
“I love you.” I declared
I should’ve said, It’s okay. Or You don’t need to thank me. Or even No problem.
But I didn’t.
I took a deep breath, held the rose between us
“I love you.” I declared it — raw and true — not for him, but for all the years I waited in silence.
I know. Ellar probably thought I’d lost my mind. And this guy was too injured to deal with confessions in the rain.
But I didn’t care.
I wasn’t going to let him walk away again.
I said the words I’d waited three years to say. And the rose... it knew.
rain is pouring heavier than before. At the exact moment it took all my bravery of the eight years to say that to him.
He looked at me with disbelief, then slowly stood—and walked away.
He left me there, in the rain. Again.
But this time, he knew how I felt.
And that was enough.
Tears flowed—tears I’d held for three long years.
I didn’t even know his name. But I knew those eyes. I loved those eyes before I ever loved the man.
“Rosie, are you okay?” Ellar asked softly. Again. And again. Like his voice might stitch together the pieces of me coming undone.
In that dark alley, only we remained. The storm still wept from above, but not louder than the silence he left behind — the boy with ocean eyes. He heard my confession. And he walked away.
Just like that. Gone.
“Rosie, are you okay?”
What could I say?
No, I wasn’t okay. My chest was cracking open like a rotted floorboard. Eight years of silence, eight years of longing, eight years of building myself strong enough to survive him — and the second I saw him, I shattered.
I wanted to scream, I am not okay, Ellar. I wanted to claw the sky open and rip out every ‘what if’ that ever haunted me.
But the only words that escaped were—
“Yes. I’m okay, Ellar.”
Even as tears poured down, mixing with the rain, like grief disguised as weather. Even as every breath felt like swallowing glass.
And somehow… Somehow, I didn’t hate the rain.
Not anymore. Not after it led me here. Not after the rose.
Thank you, I thought, to the storm. Thank you, to the rose still warm in my hand. For bringing him to me — even if it was just to break my heart all over again.
