The boy's breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted down the narrow street, his shoes splashing through puddles left by the light drizzle that had started moments ago. His heart pounded with frustration and anger, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The cold wind nipped at his face, mingling with the warmth of the tears he refused to let fall.
It had been another argument—one of many. Even on a family trip, he was singled out, blamed for things he hadn't done. His father's cold, disapproving voice still rang in his ears, his sharp words cutting deeper than any wound. His sister had tried to defend him, her voice rising in desperate defiance, but even she couldn't shield him from their father's wrath. His mother, ever silent, had done nothing but look away, as if pretending it wasn't happening could make it go away.
"I hate them," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaky and raw. "I hate him."
The drizzle turned into a steady rain, soaking through his thin jacket and plastering his hair to his forehead. But he didn't stop running. The anger boiling inside him was too strong, the injustice too suffocating. He wanted to escape, to outrun the crushing unfairness that seemed to follow him like a shadow.
As the rain grew heavier, his sprint slowed to a jog and then a walk. He stopped near the bright neon glow of a convenience store, the fluorescent light spilling out onto the wet pavement. He stood there for a moment, panting, as the cool rain cascaded over him. His eyes drifted to a rack of umbrellas near the entrance. Without thinking, he stepped forward, grabbed one—a simple black umbrella with a silver handle—and kept walking. No one stopped him, no one called out. No one cared.
"Figures," he muttered bitterly, clutching the umbrella tightly. "No one cares."
He wandered aimlessly through the rain-soaked streets, the city around him blurred and unfamiliar. His soaked shoes squelched against the pavement as the downpour intensified. The boy didn't know where he was going; he only knew he couldn't go back. Not yet.
Eventually, he stumbled into a park. The rain was relentless now, drumming against the empty benches and sodden grass. He hesitated, looking around the deserted space, and then spotted her.
A woman sat on a wooden bench beneath a tree, though the tree offered no shelter from the deluge. She was drenched, her long hair clinging to her face and shoulders, and her thin coat doing little to protect her from the cold. She sat hunched over, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the ground. Even from a distance, the boy could see the pain etched into her features—the kind of pain that made his anger feel small and insignificant.
Something stirred inside him, an unfamiliar urge he couldn't quite place. He wanted to help her. He didn't know why—he just did.
Taking a deep breath, he approached her cautiously, his footsteps squelching softly against the wet grass. The closer he got, the more vulnerable she seemed. Her shoulders trembled, though whether from the cold or something else, he couldn't tell.
When he reached her, he hesitated, clutching the umbrella tightly. "You'll catch a cold if you stay like that," he said, his voice awkward and unsure.
The woman looked up, startled. Her red, puffy eyes locked onto his, her face pale and gaunt. For a moment, she simply stared at him, as if she couldn't comprehend why he was there.
"Here," he said, stepping closer and opening the umbrella over her. The rain slid off its surface, forming a small, protective haven for them both. "You can have it."
The woman's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, her gaze softened, and she reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing against the umbrella's handle. The boy noticed how frail her hands looked, how her fingers trembled as they closed around the silver grip.
The boy smiled faintly, though his own troubles still weighed heavily on him. "It's okay," he said gently. "You need it more than I do."
For the first time, the woman's lips curved into a faint smile. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. She whispered something he couldn't quite hear, her voice swallowed by the rain. But he didn't need to hear it to understand her gratitude. The weight of her pain seemed to lessen, just a little, under the shelter of that simple black umbrella.
---
Lucian woke with a start, his chest heaving as though he'd been running. His body was slick with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, his heart racing as the remnants of the dream lingered in his mind.
A boy… the rain… an umbrella… The fragments were scattered and blurry, slipping through his grasp like water. He sat up, raking a hand through his damp hair as he tried to piece it together, frustration bubbling in his chest. There was something familiar about the dream, something that tugged at a distant part of him he couldn't quite reach.
His eyes darted to the other side of the bed. It was empty, the silky sheets where Selene had lain already cold. She'd left without a word, her absence oddly jarring. A faint hint of her dark floral perfume still lingered in the air, a subtle reminder of her presence. Lucian frowned, the hollow space beside him only adding to the strange unease the dream had left behind.
Just as the fog of the dream began to fade, a sharp knock sounded at the door. "Lucian," came Amelia's clipped voice. "Training starts in ten minutes. Get up."
Lucian groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Perfect timing as always, Ironmaiden."
The door opened slightly, and Amelia's stern face appeared. She raised an eyebrow at his disheveled state. "You look like you've already been through a workout."
"Just a bad dream," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Or maybe a weird one."
Amelia's gaze lingered on him for a moment, her sharp eyes softening slightly before she straightened. "You can reflect on it later. For now, get ready."
Lucian sighed, dragging himself to his feet. As he moved to prepare for another grueling day of training, the remnants of the dream clung to him, a faint, inexplicable ache in his chest. The empty side of the bed felt heavier now, like an unspoken question he didn't yet have the courage to ask.