ASHES DON'T CRY

Annabell stood on the edge of the tallest residential building in her town. The Marriott Majesty towered over the city, its hundreds of illuminated windows glowing against the darkness. Twenty-three floors above the streets, Annabell stood at the edge, preparing to disappear. Dressed in faded, baggy jeans and a muddy white top peeking out from beneath her green hoodie, she looked exhausted. Her short hair clung to her face, matted by the rain that had just ceased. Her bag and glasses lay discarded far behind her. She was crying—not the quiet kind. The wind stole every sob before the city could hear it. Her fingers trembled against the cold concrete ledge as tears blurred the lights below into rivers of gold. She hadn't slept in three days. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. Her body begged her to step back. Her mind begged her to let go. Annabell looked over the edge. Cars crawled beneath her like tiny insects, their headlights weaving through the rain-soaked streets. Somewhere below, people hurried home, laughing beneath shared umbrellas, complaining about traffic, arguing over dinner. None of them looked up. None of them knew that twenty-three floors above them, a life hung in the balance. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. The city had ignored her for seven years. Why would it notice her now? She shifted one foot closer to the edge. The concrete was slick beneath her worn sneakers. One step. One heartbeat. One decision. She closed her eyes. For the first time in years... ...she thought of her mother. Not the body the newspapers talked about. Not the photographs the police pinned to their evidence board. Her mother. The woman who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making pancakes. The woman who kissed her forehead every morning before school. The woman who promised, "No matter what happens, you'll never be alone." Annabell's lips trembled. "You lied, Mom." The words disappeared into the wind. And just like that— Seven years vanished in a heartbeat. She was thirteen again.