THE STORM BEFORE.
Raindrops splattered against the windowpanes rhythmically.
Freya sat curled at the edge of the living room couch, her knees tucked to her chest, an open book turned over like she had been reading but paused for a while. The fireplace crackled quietly, casting shadows on the faded wallpaper and lighting up the picture frames situated on the mantle. Their little home,right at the edge of Greystone village, had always felt warm. But tonight, it was different.
The wind outside was roaring now, loud and angry while the trees outside swayed to the rhythm of the wind.The windows rattled violently,scaring Freya a little.She clenched her knees to her chest, pulling the crocheted blanket over her shoulders.
The fire should have made her feel safe. It usually did.
But something was wrong.
She could feel it under her skin. Her father was unusually still in the old leather armchair across from her. Thomas had always been a steady presence—his voice low, his movements calculated. But now, he looked pale with his clenched jaws and sullen position while he gazed into the fire.
Freya stared at him. She was seventeen, but her eighteenth birthday would arrive with the morning. Normally, that would excite her. A new beginning. Adulthood. But tonight, it didn’t feel so.
The firelight illuminated her pale face, highlighting her delicate cheekbones and freckles which spread across her nose. Her golden brown hair, loosely braided,fell down her shoulders. She was a quiet soul—gentle, often lost in books or wild thoughts as most teenagers did. Her father called her his little sparrow,his treasure.
“Papa,” she said softly. “You’re quiet tonight.”
Thomas blinked. It took him a moment to come back to the room.
“Am I?” he said, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just tired, sweetheart. Long day.”
She tilted her head, watching him closely. His face was wrinkled– lined with the weight of years spent in hard labor. His grey beards had not been trimmed in days, and the buttons on his shirt were slightly undone,as if he’d dressed hurriedly.
“You didn’t eat,” she said, setting her book aside.
He nodded,but didn’t move. The silence between them echoed.
Freya rose and walked slowly to the fireplace, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She added another piece of wood to the fire and turned.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Thomas didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rubbed his hands together—a habit she hadn’t seen in years, one he used to do when anxious or ashamed.
He stood abruptly and moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain.His silhouette against the glass looked heavier than usual, as though burdened by something.
“You’re not sick, are you?” she pressed.
“Please don’t hide it.”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Nothing like that.”
She exhaled.
Still, something remained unspoken.
He tapped his fingers nervously on the window frame.
Freya took a step forward. “Papa,what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer.
Thomas slowly turned to face her. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”
She nodded. “Eighteen.”
He stepped toward her, and for the first time she saw it—his eyes were wet.
“I’ve tried to be a good father,” he said. “I’ve tried to protect you.”
The shift in his voice made the room seem smaller.
“I made a mistake, Freya. A long time ago.”
Her chest tightened. “What kind of mistake?”
Thomas sat again, running both hands through his hair in what seemed to be like regret.
“I did something desperate when you were a child. You were sick. Dying. I had nothing. No money. No way to save you.” He looked up at her, voice cracking. “So I stole from the man I worked for.”
The breath caught in her throat.
“Mr. Morisson?”
Thomas nodded, shame dragging his chin to his chest.
“He had… a family heirloom. A necklace. Worth more than I could ever make in a lifetime. I took it. Sold it. Used it to pay the hospital bills.” His voice trembled. “I thought it would end there. But he found out.”
Freya’s eyes watered. “What… what did he do?”
Thomas looked at her as if she were already lost to him. “He made me a deal. I’d pay him back—in cash or in kind. I had nothing left… so I gave him a promise.”
She stepped back. “No…”
“You were only five,” he said, breaking. “I didn’t think it would ever come to this. I thought I could undo it. Fix it before he came to collect.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Thomas rose and stepped forward, but she backed away.
“You promised me to him?”
“I didn’t know what else to do!” he cried.
Freya shook her head vigorously as if in denial
“You let me grow up thinking I was free. That I had a choice.”
“I wanted you to live,” he whispered, tears slipping from his eyes now too.
“And now I’m being handed over like—like some object?” Her voice cracked. “Like a thing?”
He tried to reach her again, but she turned away, choking back sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “But it’s done. He’s coming tomorrow.”
Freya didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She tried but her mouth was dry. No water,no words. Just speechless.
She stood there, trembling. It felt like a dream—a nightmare. And she needed to wake up.
