SWEET SORIRE

Episode Two : When The Night Broke

The night was calm, deceptively so. Outside, the crickets sang in their steady rhythm, and the tired wind rattled the shutters of the farmhouse. Inside, the fire crackled softly. Sorire sat on the floor with Leona and Keona, helping them mend a broken wooden toy while her parents whispered at the table. Their voices were low, heavy with talk of debts, poor harvests, and the worry of survival.

It was an ordinary night. Too ordinary.

Then, without warning, the door burst open.

The hinges cracked, the wood splintered, and three shadowed figures stormed in. Their faces were hidden behind cloth, their boots heavy, their voices rough. The air filled with the smell of sweat, smoke, and something darker.

Her mother gasped. Her father rose from his chair, but before he could take a step, one of the intruders swung a thick stick across his face. He collapsed with a groan, blood glistening at his lip.

“Stay down, old man!” the attacker snarled.

The second man shoved Sorire’s mother aside, knocking her against the wall. She cried out, clutching her side.

The twins froze, eyes wide, clutching Sorire’s arms. Their small bodies shook violently. Sorire felt her heart thunder in her chest, but she pulled them behind her, shielding them with her own body.

“What do you want?” her father rasped, struggling to rise again.

The third man stepped forward, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the twins. He grinned under the cloth that covered his mouth. “The children. Pretty little things like these fetch a fine price.”

Sorire’s blood ran cold.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Then louder: “No! Please—don’t take them!”

The men laughed, cruel and sharp. One of them grabbed at Keona’s arm, but Sorire pushed her sister back and stood firm, her hands trembling but her eyes blazing.

“Take me instead!” she cried. “Leave them. They’re just children—take me!”

“Ha!” one of the men scoffed. “You’re bold for a farmer’s daughter.” He leaned close, his breath sour. “But boldness can be punished.”

Her father roared and tried to lunge again, only to be struck down brutally, his head slamming against the dirt floor. Her mother screamed, begging for mercy, but the men ignored her.

Sorire’s voice rose again, desperate but unyielding. “Please! I’ll go willingly! Take me, not them!”

For a moment, the men exchanged glances. The leader shrugged. “Fine. The girl it is.”

But before they dragged her away, they showed their cruelty. They mocked her pleas, broke her dignity, and stripped her of the safety she had once clung to. Her cries echoed in the night, mingling with her parents’ protests and the twins’ terrified screams.

When it was over, Sorire collapsed to the floor, trembling and broken. Yet even in her pain, she reached for her siblings, brushing her hands over their hair. “It’s alright,” she whispered through tears. “Don’t cry. Be strong. Look after each other.”

The men seized her arms and yanked her to her feet. Her mother’s sobs filled the air, her father struggled to crawl toward her, but they were powerless. The thieves snatched what little valuables the family owned—tools, blankets, even the food stored in clay pots.

The twins clung to each other, wailing as Sorire was dragged toward the broken door. She twisted her head to give them one last smile, weak but brave, though her eyes shone with agony.

Then she was gone, swallowed into the darkness beyond the threshold.

The house was left in ruins—parents beaten, children crying, and silence settling heavy in the wake of chaos.

That night, the farmhouse of laughter became a place of sorrow.

That night, Sorire’s life was stolen from her.

That night, tragedy truly began.