She sighed softly and closed her eyes, as if trying to lull her inner wounds back to sleep—those dark scars that always threatened to disturb her present peace. For a moment, silence wrapped around her like a gentle shroud, steadying her heart.
When she opened her eyes again, the world seemed unchanged, yet somehow gentler. She smiled—calm, serene—as though nothing had ever touched her. The control she had over herself was almost breathtaking, a quiet power that demanded respect.
Just then, her phone vibrated in her trousers' pocket. She pulled it out, and the screen lit up with a message from her mother:
"Come upstairs, tea is ready."
Velora smiled again, her lips curving with a tenderness she rarely revealed. She lifted her eyes to the sky, inhaling deeply. Whatever storms she had endured, whatever shadows clung to her past—her mother remained her heartbeat, the one constant in a world of uncertainties.
She rose from the bench and walked toward the tall building on her right. Her steps echoed softly in the damp corridor until she reached the elevator. With a calm hand, she pressed the button for the eighth floor.
As she waited, she tapped her foot lightly against the marble floor, her eyes drifting upward. A small security camera blinked above the elevator doors. She tilted her head and smiled at it, amused by its silent watch.
Her gaze wandered down the hallway. Every door was closed, every corner empty. Of course, she thought, everyone was out on their balconies or in the courtyard, lost in laughter, in conversations, in the carefree joy that only rain could bring.
A soft smile curved her lips once more. What a peaceful life… she thought, savoring the serenity of the moment, the kind that reminded her of childhood dreams she rarely let herself revisit.
She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and called out with a bright smile,
"Hello, Mom!"
Her mother, standing by the kitchen counter, turned with a gentle smile.
"Come, let's go to the balcony with some tea. I've made pancakes, cookies, and potato cutlets."
At the mention of food, Velora's mouth watered. She ran up and hugged her mother.
"Mom, you're the best!"
Her mother laughed, and Velora joined in. Their laughter mingled warmly, wrapping the room in a rare, fleeting peace.
Suddenly, a deep, playful voice rang from the drawing room:
"Oh wow, the beauties are laughing… tell me too, I want to laugh!"
Both mother and daughter turned to see her father leaning against the sofa with a teasing smile. They couldn't help but smile back.
"Your daughter only loves food, so she's happy whenever she sees something to eat," her mother teased.
Her father laughed heartily.
"Then you should make her happy every day!"
Velora grinned mischievously.
"Exactly, Dad! After all, I am the only daughter here!"
The room instantly filled with their laughter—the playful bond of father and daughter echoing like music. Her mother folded her arms and gave them a mock glare.
"Yeah, yeah… I'm just the maid here, right? You two just eat and laugh while I do all the cooking."
Her father chuckled and rose to defend himself, his voice soft and warm:
"No, no… you are my heart, my life, my love."
Her mother blushed despite herself, shaking her head as she carried a tray toward the balcony. Their laughter, the aroma of tea, and the fading daylight promised a rare, perfect evening.
After filling her stomach with tea, pancakes, and cutlets, Velora slipped away to her room. She collapsed onto her bed, letting out a long sigh.
Now came the part she couldn't escape—checking her research data. She stared at her laptop for a moment and laughed softly.
Who would have thought? A girl who had always hated begging, who swore she'd never bow her head before anyone, was now practically pleading with strangers to fill her survey forms.
The irony made her chuckle again, but the laughter soon faded into a heavy silence. She had never been good at making friends. In all her life, there were only two—one from her very first class in school, and another from the second semester of university. Two friends in twenty-seven years. That was her reality.
Velora was neither an introvert nor an extrovert; she was an omnivert. She could adapt to people and situations, but when it came to relationships, she created them only from the heart. If she decided to keep someone close, she would make it happen—whatever it took.
She was warm and friendly toward every girl she met, her smile and kindness making her approachable. But she had her boundaries, and she made them clear.
"I'm friendly," she often said, "but that doesn't mean I'm your friend."
That single line drew the line around her world, keeping her safe, yet also setting her apart.
Velora never took anything from her friends. She was always the giver. Even on her own birthdays, she decorated the room, set the table, and planned everything herself—just so her two closest friends could enjoy the day.
Her papa jani's words echoed in her heart:
"Never be a taker to your friends, always be a giver."
She followed this like a silent rule, never breaking it. Velora wasn't just a giver—she was a generous giver. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night, she wondered if anyone would ever give back to her the way she gave to the world.
She checked the responses to her survey.
"Wow… 39… 41… yay! But—ugh, still just 41."
Her smile faded. A heaviness pressed against her chest. For the past one and a half months, she had been working tirelessly on data collection, yet she had only 41 responses. She needed 100.
With a sigh, she opened the folder containing her research proposal. The screen lit up with bold letters:
"The Long-Term Effects of Parental Divorce on Children's Mental Health."
Her breath caught. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair. How ironic… The very wounds of her childhood—the pain of her parents' divorce—had pushed her to choose this topic. She wanted to understand, to heal, and to raise awareness for those who suffered the same fate.
And yet… she couldn't even find enough participants. Divorce was so common in society, yet the people she needed seemed invisible, scattered, unreachable.
Her mind drifted back—uninvited, but sharp.
A little girl stood trembling in the corner of the living room. Her cheeks were wet with tears as she cried, voice breaking, "Please… don't beat my mom!" Her small fists were clenched, but her body shook helplessly.
Beside her, her 5-year-old brother wailed loudly, not understanding what was happening—only knowing the sound of chaos, fear, and his mother's pain. He clung to her dress, his sobs echoing louder with every crash of anger in the room.
A few steps behind, her 9-year-old brother stood frozen. He didn't cry, didn't shout—he just stared with wide eyes, his little body stiff against the wall. Fear had paralyzed him.
The sounds of shouting, the thud of something hitting the ground, and their mother's pleading filled the house. The little girl's voice cracked as she begged, "Please stop!" but her words vanished in the storm.
And then—something inside her broke. She pulled her little brother's hand away, glanced at her older brother still frozen, and ran.
She bolted outside barefoot, tears blinding her vision. The street was empty, yet she screamed, her voice piercing the silence, "Somebody help! Please!"
She opened her eyes. A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"What a tragedy… I'm drowning in the same pain I'm trying to study."
Her scars were carved in childhood, yet she wore them as wings. The world saw only her strength, but strength was born from surviving the fire.