Rain hadn’t washed away the dirt.
It hadn’t cleaned the night’s grime or made anything better. Instead, it turned the ground into a slick, muddy mess, the kind that clings to your boots and pulls at your ankles. It was a mirror of my mind, chaotic, broken, soaked in despair.
After my father’s words, I’d spent the hours pacing the tight space of my study in the packhouse, the once-precious ledgers now just useless piles of paper. Who cared about numbers and budgets when your body was a countdown, ticking toward some inevitable end?
Listen, despair isn’t loud; it’s cold and patient, convincing you all the exits are sealed. My father’s voice still echoed in the silence: ‘The bond will kill you to make room for her’.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the mark Vance h
