Elara's Pov

Every Thursday, Dad doesn’t come home.

And every Thursday, I come here.

The hospital’s sliding doors sigh open as I approach, washing me in cold, sterile air that stings my lungs.

My fingers tighten around the sleeves of my hoodie, pulling it further over my palms.

My steps are small, quick—automatic after years of practice—because walking too slowly makes me easy to notice, and being noticed never ends well for me.

My heart taps quietly against my ribs like it’s afraid of making noise.

The hallway is dim, the flickering fluorescent lights humming overhead.

I breathe in the familiar scent of antiseptic, metal, and something faintly sweet—maybe the scent of the cafeteria’s evening pastries drifting up the vents.

I focus on that sweetness, even though it barely reaches me.

Every Thursday, the world here feels less sharp.

Every Thursday, I feel less like a ghost trapped in my father’s house.

I take a left turn, following the hallway toward the only room where I’ve ever felt the slightest hint of safety.

My footsteps echo softly, too softly, like I’m not even fully here.

Mom used to walk through hospitals like she belonged in them—confident, calm, smiling at everyone she passed.

I used to follow her, tiny fingers wrapped around hers.

Back when things were normal.

Back when I didn’t know what real monsters looked like.

I blink slowly, swallowing the burn rising in my throat.

The last time I saw her was here.

The room at the end of this very hallway.

Her breathing had been shallow, her skin so pale it looked like it would crumble if I touched it.

And then—

Dad pulled the oxygen tube away.

Just like that.

Her eyes went wide first—shock, fear, pain—and then… nothing.

I remember the sound she made.

A broken gasp.

A drowning breath.

I remember the smile on his face as he watched her struggle.

I remember standing frozen, too weak, too small, too powerless to save her.

Just like I’m too powerless to save myself.

My hands tremble.

I shove them deeper into my sleeves.

It’s been years but the memory shadows every step I take.

Every breath.

Every Thursday.

James saved my life the day I met him.

Five years ago, when I was twenty and bleeding, my legs torn from being forced to walk across broken glass—he was the new doctor on call.

Dad didn’t like new people, but he was drunk enough that night not to care who stitched me up.

So James did.

Quietly.

Gently.

He didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t look at me like I was broken.

He didn’t ask Dad for details.

He just helped me.

And once Dad grew busier, angrier, and more consumed by whatever darkness ran his life, I started coming here every Thursday.

To the same unmarked room.

To the same chair.

To the same safety.

James never asked why.

I never answered.

That’s how we worked.

Except once—two years ago—when he knelt beside me, bandaging the fresh bruises on my arms, and whispered:

“If you ever want to run away, I’ll help you.”

I remember staring at him.

Frozen.

And then smiling—a small, broken smile.

Not because his words touched me.

But because he didn’t understand.

He had no idea what my father would do if he discovered I came here.

What he would do to James.

What he would do to me.

So I stayed.

And James stayed.

And we never spoke about escape again.

He even started keeping chocolate bars in the drawer beside the table, sliding one to me each week like a secret gift.

My throat aches at the thought.

But today, when I reach the room… the lights are off.

The bed is made.

The supply cart is untouched.

The corner chair—the one I always curl into—is empty.

James isn’t here.

My chest tightens painfully, panic fluttering beneath my skin.

Maybe he’s late.

Maybe he’s sick.

Maybe he’s busy.

Maybe—

I swallow hard and step inside anyway.

The familiar quiet settles around me like a blanket.

My breath shakes.

My legs feel weak.

My body still throbs from Dad’s rage earlier this week—the bruises hidden beneath my clothes pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

Slowly, I sink into the corner.

My corner.

The only place in the world where I allow myself to make sound.

The moment I touch the wall, everything I’ve been holding back crashes over me.

The tightness in my chest.

The ache in my bones.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The loneliness stretching across years.

Tears spill before I can stop them, warm against my cold cheeks.

At home, I’m silent.

Always.

Too silent.

Too invisible.

But here… just here… I let myself cry.

Quiet sobs.

Small hiccups.

Barely-there sounds.

It’s the only time I hear my own voice.

I wipe my eyes quickly when the door creaks open.

Relief surges—

James.

But… no.

The silhouette filling the doorway is taller.

Much taller.

Broad shoulders.

A body that blocks the hall light completely.

The smell of rain and something sharp clings to him.

My chest freezes.

My breath stops.

My pulse spikes painfully.

He steps inside.

And I see the gun tucked into his boot.

My stomach drops.

My heart stutters.

Is he here to kill me?

Did Dad finally decide to finish what he started years ago?

My back hits the wall as I curl tighter into the corner, trying to make myself smaller, smaller, smaller—

His eyes meet mine.

Cold.

Intense.

Unblinking.

His jaw clenches once, hard enough that I hear the grind of his teeth.

Everything in me trembles.

“Hello there,” he says.

His voice is deep—rough, like it’s scraped by gravel and smoke.

It echoes in the tiny room, filling every inch of space until I feel it pressing against my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe Dad got tired of waiting.

Maybe Mom is finally waiting for me.

But then—

A sharp sting snaps against the side of my neck.

My eyes fly open.

He’s close.

So close his breath brushes my cheek.

His hand holds an injection pressed against my skin.

I gasp, instinctively reaching out with shaking arms to push him away—

“Shhh…” he murmurs, voice low, strangely gentle. “Just

breathe.”

The room tilts.

The walls blur.

The lights smear.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway fades until it feels miles away.

His face is the last thing I see—dark hair, fierce grey eyes, a look I can’t read—as the floor melts beneath me.

And everything goes black.