Barefoot, I stepped into the garden, the rain cool against my skin.
I didn’t care about the storm or the wet grass sticking to my feet.
I just needed to escape, to breathe, to feel something other than the suffocating pressure I’d been under all day.
The soft glow of a few garden lights barely lit the way, but I didn’t stop.
My thoughts were louder than the rain, louder than anything else.
What more could I give? What else did they want from me?
The questions circled like vultures, picking apart what little peace I had left.
I made my way toward the back of the garden, my eyes catching the silhouette of the treehouse.
It had been years since I’d climbed up there.
Dad built it for me when I was a kid—a refuge of my own.
I’d spent hours there, watching sunsets, sewing scraps
