Threads and Needles

Prologue (Part 2)

Prologue (Part 2): The Last Stitch

WARNING: Violence

When we returned to our tiny apartment, the hallway was darker than usual. The fluorescent light that always flickered above our door was out, and the air felt heavy — like the whole building was holding its breath.

Lolo Eduardo reached for the doorknob, but stopped. His brow furrowed. The lock was broken — the metal bent, the door slightly ajar.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The shopping bag in my hand suddenly felt too heavy; the excitement from earlier faded into a cold, crawling fear.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered.

We stepped inside. The air smelled different — sharp, bitter, wrong. The apartment was a mess. Our things were scattered across the floor, vases shattered into glittering pieces, picture frames broken, their glass splintering like ice. My drawings — the ones I had proudly taped to the wall — were torn and trampled underfoot.

It looked like an earthquake had swallowed our home and spat it back out in pieces.

“Lo…” I whispered, clutching the strap of my small bag. My voice trembled. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the room with that sharp, careful way I had only seen when he worked on his most delicate stitches. Every breath he took seemed measured, controlled — the way a man breathes when he already knows something terrible.

And then, from the back door, came the sound.

A soft creak. Like a whisper made of wood and warning.

Lolo froze. For a second, everything went silent — the kind of silence that roars inside your ears.

Then he turned to me, his expression unreadable, his voice suddenly rough and urgent. “Pen. Hide.”

I blinked at him, confused. “But, Lo—”

“I said hide!” His tone cracked, sharper than I had ever heard. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me toward the closet, the same one that smelled of mothballs and old fabric. My legs moved before my mind did.

He shoved the shopping bags — the sketchbook, the sewing kit, the fabrics — inside with me, as if those dreams needed protection too. I could barely breathe, but I didn’t argue. His eyes, when they met mine, were not afraid — they were resigned.

“Don’t come out,” he whispered. “No matter what you hear.”

Then he closed the door.

The world outside became a muffled blur, footsteps, voices, the sound of something heavy falling. My heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else. Through the small crack in the closet door, I could see only fragments: his shadow moving, a figure stepping into the light, a flash of silver.

Then came the sound — sharp, final, echoing.

I pressed my hands over my mouth. The closet felt too small, too dark. The world had become threadbare in an instant, torn apart by something I couldn’t understand.

“Eduardo! Give me your company, now!” an old man’s voice shattered the silence of the grand living room, sharp and jagged like breaking glass. The words rattled through the air, bouncing off the family portraits lining the walls.

“Esteban, that company was supposed to be Gab’s,” Lolo Eduardo said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of decades of integrity. “But due to his disappearance, the company will go to Penelope.”

The old man laughed — a low, cruel sound that made my blood run cold. “Do you think your dumb granddaughter can run a company? She is a defect!”

I froze. The word “defect” hung in the air like poison. My chest tightened, my fists curled, but I stayed hidden.

“Don’t you dare call my granddaughter that!” Lolo Eduardo thundered, his voice shaking the room. “She just has ADHD! But you… you don’t know how capable she is!”

I pressed myself against the closet door, barely daring to breathe, and cracked it open just enough to peek out. My heart dropped. My grandfather stood tall, his normally steady posture tense, while the old man — Esteban — held a gun aimed directly at him.

Panic surged. I wanted to rush out, to scream, to throw myself between them, but terror froze me in place. My legs felt like stone, my body unresponsive, my mind screaming at me to act.

“Transfer the company to my name, and you will live,” Esteban demanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

“No,” Lolo said firmly, though I could see his body stiffen. “I let you manage the company even after you kicked me out of the board, after you fired me — but transferring the name? No! That company belongs to my son and my granddaughter—”

The shots came before he could finish.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each one tore through the air, rattling the floor beneath me. My stomach dropped as I watched him stumble, blood spraying across the polished wood. Lolo Eduardo collapsed, motionless.

I gasped, a strangled sound that escaped before I could stop it. My hand shot to my mouth, but the old man’s eyes snapped toward the closet.

“Penelope? Is that you?” His voice cut through the smoke and silence like a knife. My body shook violently. Slowly, painstakingly, I slid the closet door shut and held my breath, every muscle trembling.

The room smelled of gunpowder, iron, and fear. My grandfather’s shallow breaths filled my ears, mingling with my own ragged heartbeat. The old man’s footsteps echoed as he moved closer, deliberate, slow, a drumbeat of terror.

And then it hit me, this wasn’t just fear. This was survival. The fire Lolo had always said I had, the one he believed in even when no one else did, flared inside me. I could not let him die. Not like this. Not in front of me.

I stepped out from the closet, trembling, each step feeling like wading through a storm. The old man’s eyes widened in surprise, but my gaze remained locked on Lolo Eduardo.

“Lolo…” I choked, my voice breaking. Tears stung my eyes as I sank to my knees beside him. My hands hovered over his bloodied chest, unsure whether to press or just hold him. “Please… don’t leave me… I can’t lose you.”

His eyes flickered open, dim but warm. He forced a faint, fragile smile. “Penelope… my brave girl,” he rasped. “I always knew… even when others doubted… you had fire inside you. Stronger than anyone could see… stronger than even I sometimes realized.”

I gripped his hand tightly, tears spilling freely. “I’m scared, Lolo… I don’t know if I can… I’m just a kid…” My sobs shook my shoulders, and I pressed my forehead to his chest, needing the comfort only he could give.

“You’re not just a kid,” he whispered, voice soft but steady. “You’re stronger than you know. Courage isn’t the absence of fear — it’s standing up even when fear threatens to crush you. You have that courage, Penelope. I’ve always known it.”

“I promise, Lolo,” I whispered, my tears falling to the floor. “I’ll be brave… for you… for Gab… for all of us. I won’t let fear win.”

He squeezed my hand weakly but firmly, a small, proud smile forming. “That’s my girl… my brave, unshakable girl. Remember… always, no matter what happens… you are stronger than any obstacle, stronger than anyone who doubts you.”

For a moment, the chaos — the gun, the blood, the terror — faded. It was just us. His hand in mine. His voice, soft yet powerful, grounding me. I felt a warmth spread through me, a quiet, steady flame of courage that fear could never extinguish.

In that instant, I understood: love and bravery were not the absence of fear — they were the choice to face it anyway. And I would not run. I would not hide. I would fight. For him. For my family. For myself.