Aria POV
By the time my apartment building came into view, I was soaked through to the bone and shivering hard enough that my teeth clicked together.
Rainwater streamed off the edge of the roof in heavy sheets, splashing onto the cracked pavement like the sky had sprung a leak and no one knew how to fix it. My sneakers squelched with every step. Each stair up to our unit felt heavier than the last, my legs trembling from the run and the long shift before it.
I fumbled with my keys, fingers numb and clumsy.
The door flew open before I could fit the right one into the lock.
"Aria!"
Mom stood there, her face tight with worry, cardigan wrapped around herself like she'd been pacing in it for hours. Warm light spilled from behind her, haloing the familiar shape of home—the faded couch, the tiny shoe rack, the photo wall we kept meaning to rearrange.
"Oh my God, look at you," she breathed. "You're drenched."
"I noticed," I said, attempting a smile that came out more like a wince.
She pulled me inside immediately, shutting the door against the storm. The air smelled like ginger tea and laundry detergent. Safe things. Soft things.
"You're late again," she said, quieter now, but the fear hadn't left her eyes. "Do you know what time it is?"
"I lost track."
"You always lose track."
"I had closing shift."
"And the night before that. And the one before that." Her voice wavered. "Aria, you can't keep walking home alone this late. Not in this weather. Not… not like this."
I dropped my bag by the door, water pooling beneath it. "Mom, I'm fine."
"That's not the point."
She reached for my hands, then flinched. "You're freezing."
"I'll shower."
But she didn't let go. Her grip tightened, like if she released me I might dissolve into the rainwater still clinging to my sleeves.
"I wait up every night," she said. "I tell myself I won't, but I do. Every car that passes, every sound in the hallway—I think maybe it's you. And when it isn't…" She swallowed. "You're all I have."
Guilt pressed heavy against my ribs.
"I'm sorry."
"I know you're working hard." Her thumb rubbed small circles over my knuckles, the way she used to when I was little and couldn't sleep. "I just don't want the world taking more from you than it already has."
I laughed softly. "It's just a job, Mom."
"No," she said gently. "It's never just a job when it's your life wrapped around it."
I didn't have an answer for that.
She sighed and finally released my hands. "Go. Hot shower. I'll heat dinner."
"I can do it."
"You've done enough."
I didn't argue.
The bathroom mirror fogged within minutes, steam curling thick and ghostlike around the ceiling. I peeled off wet clothes that clung stubbornly to my skin and stepped under the spray.
Heat soaked into me slowly, like my body didn't trust it at first.
Water thundered against tile. My thoughts drifted.
The diner.The empty booths.The old man's smile.
You'll get there.
I tipped my head back, letting water run over my face.
"Get where?" I murmured.
Dreams felt bigger at night. Louder. Like they waited for the dark to start asking questions I couldn't dodge during the day.
What was I building toward?
Another year of double shifts?Another stack of unpaid bills?Another birthday wishing for more time?
The future felt like a hallway with flickering lights—long, uncertain, easy to get lost in.
I shut the water off and stood there a moment longer, listening to the rain batter the small window above the tub.
It hadn't let up.
Later, wrapped in old pajamas and the comfort of dry clothes, I joined Mom at the small kitchen table. Steam rose from a bowl of rice and vegetable stew. She always cooked when she was worried. Said it gave her hands something to do besides wringing themselves.
"Eat," she said, sliding the bowl toward me.
I took a spoonful. Too hot. Perfect.
We sat in familiar quiet, the kind that didn't demand conversation to feel full.
"You're thinking again," she said.
"I'm always thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
I smiled faintly. "I was just wondering what life looks like five years from now."
"Hopefully with more sleep."
"And less leaking ceilings."
"And maybe," she added softly, "a place that's yours."
I looked up.
She rarely talked about my dreams out loud, like saying them might scare them off if they heard themselves spoken.
"I'll get there," I said.
"I know you will."
Her certainty felt fragile tonight. Like glass pretending to be steel.
Lightning flashed white across the window. Thunder followed a second later, loud enough to rattle the dishes in the cabinet.
She flinched. "Storm's nasty."
"Yeah."
Rain streaked the glass in restless lines. The sound filled the room, steady and heavy.
For some reason, my mind drifted back to the diner. To the window booth. To silver hair and steady eyes that always seemed to see more than I said.
"I hope he got home okay," I murmured without thinking.
"Who?"
"Just… a regular."
Mom hummed knowingly. "Kind?"
"The kindest."
"Then the world will be kind back."
I hoped she was right.
I dried my hair slowly in my room, the towel heavy around my shoulders, listening to the steady drumming of rain against the roof. The storm hadn't eased at all. If anything, it sounded closer—louder—like the sky was pressing down on the building.
I sat on the edge of my bed, absently scrolling through my phone, not really seeing the screen.
Then it buzzed in my hand.
Unknown number.
I frowned. Spam call? At this hour?
It buzzed again.
A strange tightness crept into my chest. I answered.
"Hello?"
Static crackled softly before a man's voice came through—measured, professional.
"Is this Aria Bennett?"
"Yes?"
"This is St. Matthew's Hospital. I'm calling regarding Mr. Theodore Vale."
My heart stumbled.
"I—sorry—who?"
"Mr. Vale listed you as an emergency contact."
Emergency contact.
The words didn't fit. Not at first.
"There must be a mistake," I said slowly. "I'm just— I know him from the diner."
"Ma'am, Mr. Vale was involved in a vehicle collision approximately forty minutes ago. He's currently in critical care."
The room tilted.
"I don't understand."
"Are you able to come to the hospital?"
Rain filled the silence between us, loud and endless.
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, I'll come."
The call ended.
I stayed very still, phone pressed to my ear long after the line went dead.
"Aria?" Mom called from the kitchen. "Everything okay?"
My voice felt far away. "I have to go out."
"In this storm?"
"Someone I know—he's hurt."
Fear crossed her face again, fresh and sharp. "Who?"
I grabbed my jacket. "A friend."