It was raining again.
Not that I could see it—only feel the air shift, the droplets scatter across my skin like cold warnings.
My cane tapped against the edge of the pavement. One step. Another.
I moved by instinct now. Habit. Muscle memory.
The rest of me was on autopilot—until the voice.
> "Still playing blind, freak?"
A shove.
Not hard. Not painful. Just enough to remind me I existed.
That they saw me.
That they didn't care.
This is me. My name is Althaea.
I'm 1.57meter tall , black-haired, white-skinned. Thin. Blind.
I've had a lot of names over the years—
Freak.
Dead meat.
Parasite.
And more. So many more.
You could say, "At least you have a father or mother."
Well... not exactly.
I was an orphan.
Foster care. Passed around like a forgotten package—over and over again.
Some houses were decent. Most weren't. Some just wanted the check.
Most of the time, I didn't stay long enough to unpack. Or remember the last name.
Now?
I live alone in a dorm.
Work a part-time job in a call center.
Trying to survive college.
I was lucky enough to get good grades in high school—
some miracle, really. It got me into a decent college. Not top tier, not bottom.
Just enough to not be invisible on paper.
First year. Five months in.
And everything's still a mess.
Trying to build a routine.
Trying to build... something.
A path, maybe.
Anything that feels like it leads somewhere.
---
The bus was late again.
I stood there, soaked, my cane in one hand, the strap of my bag in the other.
The rain had soaked through my jeans, filled the soles of my shoes, and trickled down the back of my neck.
I hated the feeling of wet clothes clinging to my spine.
I hated the silence more.
Then I felt someone step closer. The air shifted again. I tensed.
> "Sorry, do you know what time the bus will arrive?"
A man's voice. Deep. Older.
I couldn't see him—obviously—but something about it sounded worn, detached. Like someone used to waiting for things that never came.
> "Two hours," he said casually.
I froze
> "What?"
> "It's five-thirty now. The five o'clock left. Next one's at seven-thirty."
> "Damn," I muttered under my breath.
Two hours in the rain.
No covered shelter here. Just the cracked sidewalk, a crooked sign, and two iron benches with one broken armrest.
The call center was far—almost an hour by walking, and for someone like me? Add another thirty or more minutes.
Panic started to rise, tightening around my ribs.
> I've already missed too many shifts. My paycheck barely stretches to groceries and college essentials. A taxi? That's not even an option. I just… can't."
I turned slowly, tapping my cane quickly across the stone. My hands were shaking.
The sidewalk was uneven here. Old tree roots had cracked the pavement years ago.
Water pooled in dips. My feet were already soaked.
I could hear the man walking away. Or maybe I imagined it.
The wind picked up. The rain got colder.
I gritted my teeth.
> Don't cry. You'll look pathetic.
I felt a drop slide down my cheek anyway. Could've been rain. Could've been me.
And then—
Light.
Just for a second.
A flicker. A shimmer. Something broke through the dark.
Streetlamps?
No—movement. Color. Blurry shapes. The edge of the road? The reflection of the bus sign?
It was hazy, like looking through glass underwater.
But it was there.
I could see.
I froze.
My cane stopped tapping. My feet locked in place. My heart hit the back of my ribs like a fist.
And then—darkness again.
Gone.
Like someone flipped a switch.
I just stood there, soaked in the rain, shaking.
> Was that real?
Did that just happen?
I stared into the void behind my eyes, trying to bring it back.
Anything. A flash. A glimmer. A memory.
> No. That's not possible.
My breathing turned shallow. I leaned against the nearest bench and slowly slid down until I was sitting. Water soaked the back of my jeans, but I didn't care.
I clutched the cane in both hands.
When I was thirteen, I stayed with the Olex family for two months. They were the "do things by the book" type.
The kind that smiled with teeth and bought you things for pictures.
They made me see a doctor—a specialist in vision development.
I still remember his words.
> "You were born blind," he said. "It's not a matter of damage or trauma.
There's no structure for sight to process.
She'll never see."
I remember nodding like I understood, like I cared. But part of me cried that night.
Not for what I lacked—
But for how sure they all were that it would never change.
---
But this…
> This felt real.
My heart was still pounding.
A glitch in the universe.
A miracle.
A hallucination?
I didn't know.
But I wanted—needed—to believe it was real.
I've had nothing but bad luck in my life. Stacked head-high.
So maybe, just maybe, this one moment…
This one flicker of light… was mine.
I finally made it to the building.
Late.
My stomach clenched the moment I stepped inside. A cold, twisting kind of anxiety that made it hard to breathe.
I was in trouble. Again.
Mr. William definitely wouldn't like this.
And he wasn't the kind of guy who just got annoyed—he was the type who remembered. Held grudges. And acted on them.
He always smelled like stale cigarettes. Even from across the room. The kind of bitter smoke that clung to his clothes like oil. You couldn't wash it off. Couldn't escape it.
Worse than the stench, though, was him.
The way he lingered too close when no one was looking.
The way his voice dropped when he said my name—like it was some kind of secret we were sharing.
The way he "joked" about me needing help getting around. About how "someone like me" shouldn't be alone so much.
Always pretending he was doing me a favor.
I hated it.
I hated him.
And I hated that I was giving him another excuse tonight.
> God, please let me make it to my desk without him noticing.
Just one clean entry. No confrontation. No eyes on me.
I tapped my cane slowly across the tiled floor. I knew this building well—at least the front half. The hall leading to the breakroom. The line of desks tucked behind the front counter. My desk was fifth on the left, close to the wall.
I tried to move quickly, but not in a way that seemed like I was rushing. Just... normal. Calm. As if I belonged here.
The receptionist didn't say anything as I passed. That was good.
The hallway was too quiet. That was bad.
Then—
> "Miss Althaea."
His voice. Right behind me.
I froze.
That tone—silky and too amused—made my skin crawl.
He always said my name like it was a private thing. Something he owned.
> "A little late again, aren't we?"
I turned slightly toward the sound, gripping my cane tighter.
> "The bus didn't come. I had to walk. The rain—"
> "Oh, I'm sure you have plenty of reasons," he said smoothly. "But I can't keep covering for you, sweetheart. Management's been watching the logs."
Liar. He was management.
> "I understand," I said quietly.
He stepped closer. I could smell the cigarette smoke now. Stronger.
> "Tell you what," he said, lowering his voice, "why don't you stay late tonight? Make up the hours. I'll adjust the shift report—if you ask nicely."
My throat tightened.
He always did this.
Always offered "help" with a hook hidden in it.
I didn't answer.
> "No need to be rude, Althaea," he murmured. "I'm just being generous."
I took a step back. Felt the edge of the wall near the cubicle divider.
> "I'll finish my scheduled shift," I said quietly. "If there's a report issue, I can speak to HR."
That silenced him.
For a beat.
Then he chuckled under his breath.
Low. Cold.
> "Have it your way, blind girl."
He walked off. I didn't move until I was sure his footsteps were fading.
My hands were trembling when I finally sat at my desk.
> Why does it always have to be like this?
I hated that I needed this job.
Hated that I had to smile through it. Sit still. Never show discomfort.
Because if I lost this? I didn't know what came next.
But even as I opened the call system and slipped on my headset... my mind wasn't here.
It was still back on that sidewalk.
In the rain.
With the flicker of light I wasn't supposed to have seen.
The faint shimmer of a road.
The blur of something real.