Torn Between Destinies

The wind carried a strange tension that night.

I crouched low behind the rotting fence of John’s backyard, my heart pounding like war drums in my chest. Aira’s modest house was dimly lit from the inside, shadows moving behind the cracked windows. My eyes didn’t waver from the door, especially after Kiani slipped inside with the softest nod to me, her little face too bruised for a seven-year-old.

She had done what I asked—gone in to try and speak to her mother. And now I waited, both hopeful and terrified, that Aira would follow her daughter back out. That she would believe me. That she’d remember me.

But instead, there were screams.

First Kiani’s.

Then Aira’s.

Then... nothing.

I sprang up, vaulting over the fence like a fox leaping from a trap. My boots thudded against the hard-packed soil, each footfall echoing my panic.

I reached the front porch in seconds and kicked the door open.

The scene before me stopped my breath in my throat.

Aira lay on the ground, shielding Kiani beneath her, her face streaked with blood. And standing over them—wild-eyed and snarling—was John, holding a rusted shotgun with both hands, his knuckles white. His chest heaved with rage, and his mouth twisted into something primal.