The tide crept in slowly that morning, soft and unassuming, the way a secret enters the room. Elena Ramirez sat on the jagged rocks by the shoreline, brush in hand, canvas balanced against her knees, and her hair whipping about her face in strands that caught the sea breeze like black ribbons.
She loved this hour of the day—the moment just before the world stirred awake, when fishermen's boats were only faint silhouettes against the pale horizon and the town behind her still slept in the embrace of its worn-down houses. The sea had always been her confidant. It took in her silence without judgment and gave back its endless rhythm, a lullaby that soothed her restless thoughts.
Elena dipped her brush into the mixture of blues on her palette and dragged the bristles across the canvas. She was painting the horizon again, though she never captured it exactly the same way twice. Some mornings it looked merciful, almost tender. Other days, it was sharp, biting, endless, reminding her how small she was. Today, it looked like something in between—beautiful but haunting, as if it too carried burdens too heavy to name.
Behind her, the town's chapel bell tolled once, faint in the distance. She closed her eyes and inhaled. That sound always reminded her of her mother. Years had passed since her death, but the memory still clung to Elena like the salt in the air—unseen but ever present.
"Elena!" a small voice called out, fragile but sweet, like a bird straining to sing despite broken wings.
Elena turned and saw Isabel, her younger sister, clutching her shawl tightly around her thin shoulders. She was too pale, too delicate, a flower that should have been blooming but instead seemed always on the verge of wilting. Elena's chest tightened as she watched her. Isabel shouldn't have been out here in the morning chill, but stubbornness was in their blood.
"I told you to stay inside. It's too cold for you," Elena said, setting her brush down quickly and standing to meet her sister.
Isabel smiled—soft, almost mischievous. "And I told you I'm not made of glass. You'll waste the sunrise if you spend the whole time worrying about me."
Elena brushed a strand of hair from Isabel's forehead, frowning. "You're thinner than last week. I can see it."
"You always say that." Isabel leaned her head lightly against her sister's shoulder. "Maybe it's because you look too hard."
They stood together, listening to the waves. Elena's hand found Isabel's, cold to the touch. She hated that. She hated how fragile Isabel felt, as though even the smallest storm might carry her away.
"Do you think Mama can still see us?" Isabel asked suddenly, her voice small against the sea wind.
Elena swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the canvas, on the half-painted horizon. "Yes," she lied gently. "She's watching, always."
She didn't know if it was true. Faith had been harder to hold onto after everything that happened—the endless nights of her father's rage, the silence of hunger, the ache of losing their mother too soon. But she would never take that away from Isabel. If belief gave her sister strength, Elena would feed it as much as she could.
The sun crept higher, bleeding gold into the edges of the sky. Isabel let go of Elena's hand and walked closer to the water, her shawl trailing behind her. She crouched to pick up a seashell, admiring its spiral with a quiet smile.
Elena watched her, a strange mixture of pride and fear swelling inside her. Isabel deserved the world, yet here she was, bound to this small coastal town, to a crumbling home and a sister who could only offer so much.
"Elena?" Isabel's voice pulled her back.
"Yes?"
"Paint me today. Like you paint the sea."
Elena blinked, startled. She had painted Isabel many times before in sketches—quick lines on scraps of paper, moments stolen in the lamplight. But never fully, never with the same devotion she gave the horizon.
"Why?" Elena asked softly.
"Because," Isabel said, her smile fading into something fragile, "I want you to remember me this way. Before… before anything changes."
The words struck Elena like a knife. "Nothing's changing," she said quickly, too quickly. "You'll be fine. Stop saying things like that."
But Isabel only looked at her, eyes deep and knowing, as if she could already see a truth Elena refused to face.
The shell in Isabel's hands gleamed faintly as the sun continued to rise. She traced the spiral with her fingertip, lost in thought. Elena watched her carefully, reading the unspoken messages between each motion. Isabel's silences were never empty—they carried the weight of everything she dared not say.
"Elena," Isabel said quietly, still staring at the shell, "if Mama were here, do you think she'd be proud of you?"
The question hit like a sudden wave. Elena opened her mouth, then closed it again. Pride. It felt like such a distant, foreign thing. What was there to be proud of? That she had managed to keep them alive when Father abandoned them? That she worked herself to exhaustion cleaning other people's houses, scrubbing floors that would never belong to her, just so they wouldn't starve?
She wanted to say yes—for Isabel's sake. But the truth clawed at her throat.
"I don't know," Elena admitted finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Isabel turned, her dark eyes meeting her sister's. "I think she would. You've taken care of me better than anyone else could have."
The words brought a tightness to Elena's chest. She forced a smile, but inside, she wanted to scream. If their mother had lived, Isabel wouldn't need taking care of. If their father hadn't drowned himself in alcohol and bitterness, maybe they would have been a real family. Instead, everything fell onto Elena's shoulders—dreams sacrificed, youth stolen piece by piece.
"Elena?" Isabel tilted her head.
"Yes?"
"Promise me something."
Elena braced herself. Promises from Isabel were never light things; they were threads that bound her heart.
"Promise me you won't stop painting."
Elena frowned. "Why would I stop?"
"Because life is heavy," Isabel replied simply. "Because one day, you'll feel like giving up. But if you stop painting, you'll stop being you."
The seriousness in Isabel's tone unsettled her. Elena wanted to argue, to dismiss it as childish melodrama. But deep down, she knew Isabel saw more than she let on.
"I promise," Elena whispered.
Isabel smiled, satisfied, and finally slipped her hand into Elena's. Together, they walked back toward the path leading to town.
The Ramirez home stood at the edge of the settlement, near where the cobblestone street gave way to dirt roads and weeds. Its walls were cracked, its roof patched in places with mismatched wood, and its small windows often rattled against the wind. But to Elena, it was still home—the only place left that carried echoes of their mother's voice.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Elena had hung dried herbs by the window, a poor attempt at disguising the dampness that clung to the old wood.
"Sit," Elena told Isabel firmly. "I'll make breakfast."
Isabel obeyed, curling into their mother's old chair, its cushions faded but soft. She pulled a blanket around herself and closed her eyes. Elena busied herself at the small stove, heating yesterday's bread and pouring water into a dented kettle.
Every movement was deliberate. Stirring. Pouring. Breaking bread into pieces. It wasn't just about food—it was ritual, control, survival. In this small kitchen, she could pretend, even for a little while, that life was manageable.
"Elena," Isabel murmured sleepily, "you don't have to do everything alone."
"Yes, I do," Elena replied without hesitation. "If I don't, who will?"
Isabel didn't answer.
Later that morning, after Isabel had dozed off again, Elena stepped outside with her painting supplies. She carried the half-finished canvas from the beach and set it against the wall to dry. Her eyes lingered on it. The horizon seemed colder now, darker, as if it had absorbed her doubts.
She sighed.
"Elena?"
The voice startled her. She turned quickly to see Father Gabriel standing at the gate, his cassock slightly dusted from the road. The priest was older now, his hair more silver than black, but his eyes still carried the same steady warmth that had comforted her as a child.
"Good morning, Father," Elena said, forcing a polite smile.
"I saw you by the shore earlier," he said gently. "Your paintings… they always capture something the rest of us miss."
Elena lowered her gaze. Praise felt like a burden. "They're just colors on canvas."
"No," Father Gabriel replied firmly. "They're pieces of your soul. Don't belittle that."
She said nothing. Compliments always slid off her like water. What use was painting when there were bills to pay, food to buy, medicines Isabel might soon need? Still, she appreciated the priest's kindness.
"I'll stop by later," he added, his tone softer now. "To check on Isabel."
"Thank you," Elena whispered.
When he left, she stood alone at the gate, the weight of the world pressing harder on her shoulders.
She glanced up at the sky. Clouds were gathering again, darker than before. Another storm was coming.
And she had no idea it would change everything.
The storm clouds thickened by the hour. By afternoon, the sky had dimmed to an unsettling gray, as though the world itself had grown weary. Elena stood by the window, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. The bitter warmth steadied her nerves, though it did little to soften the knot in her chest.
Behind her, Isabel hummed quietly while sewing a small tear in the blanket. Her hands shook with the effort, but she worked with determined patience.
"You should rest," Elena said without turning.
"I'm tired of resting," Isabel replied, smiling faintly. "If I rest any more, I'll forget how to live."
Elena's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but there was something in Isabel's tone that silenced her.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Elena set down her mug and quickly wiped her hands on her apron before opening it.
There, standing against the backdrop of the darkening sky, was a young man she had never seen before. His clothes were neat but damp with sea mist, his hair unruly, his expression uncertain yet kind.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice steady but gentle. "I'm looking for Father Gabriel. I was told he lives near the chapel, but I seem to have lost my way."
Elena blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes were warm brown, steady in a way that made her feel both exposed and strangely safe.
"He does," she said finally. "But you're far from the chapel. It's a twenty-minute walk from here."
The young man chuckled lightly, scratching the back of his neck. "I suppose my sense of direction isn't as good as I thought." He glanced at the sky. "It looks like rain again. Would you mind if I waited here until it passes?"
Elena hesitated. She wasn't accustomed to strangers, especially men. Too many memories of her father's anger still lived in her bones. But before she could answer, Isabel's voice called out from behind her:
"Who is it, Elena?"
Elena turned slightly. "Just someone lost."
"Invite him in, then!" Isabel said cheerfully. "The storm will drench him otherwise."
The young man smiled apologetically. "Only if it's no trouble."
Elena sighed softly, stepping aside. "Come in."
Inside, the young man removed his damp coat and held it awkwardly, as though afraid of imposing. Isabel's face lit up when she saw him.
"Hello," she said brightly. "I'm Isabel."
He bowed his head slightly. "Daniel. Daniel Cruz."
The name lingered in Elena's mind. Simple. Honest. Somehow it fit him.
Daniel sat on the edge of the wooden chair while Isabel peppered him with questions—where he was from, what brought him here, whether he liked the sea. He answered each patiently, with a quiet humor that made Isabel giggle.
Elena, meanwhile, remained cautious. She busied herself with pouring tea, her ears catching every word.
"I'm here for my studies," Daniel explained. "Medicine, actually. Father Gabriel was kind enough to suggest lodging in town while I help at the clinic."
"A doctor?" Isabel's eyes widened with admiration.
"Not yet," Daniel corrected with a smile. "Still a student. But one day, hopefully."
Elena placed the mug in front of him. "It won't be long before the rain starts," she said quietly. "You should stay until it eases."
Daniel met her gaze and nodded. "Thank you. You're very kind."
She looked away quickly, unaccustomed to such direct gratitude.
When the rain finally came, it was sudden and fierce, drumming against the roof in heavy sheets. The three of them sat together in the small kitchen, the air filled with the scent of wet earth and brewing tea. Isabel leaned forward eagerly, listening as Daniel told stories from his studies—patients he had helped, the long nights in lecture halls, the first time he saw a child take a breath after a difficult birth.
Elena watched quietly, her brush still stained with paint from earlier, her canvas drying by the window. She told herself she wasn't interested, that his stories were nothing more than noise. But she caught herself listening, caught herself softening, caught herself noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
It unsettled her.
"Do you like painting?" Daniel asked suddenly, nodding toward the canvas.
Elena stiffened. "It's nothing."
"It's beautiful," Daniel said, studying the horizon she had captured. "There's something… alive in it. Like it's breathing."
Her heart skipped. She wanted to brush off the compliment, to retreat into silence. But Isabel beat her to it.
"My sister is amazing," Isabel declared. "She could fill galleries with her work if she wanted."
Daniel turned back to Elena, his smile soft. "Then the world is lucky to have her paintings in it."
Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks. She stood abruptly, muttering something about needing more tea.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Isabel hide a small grin.
Hours passed. The storm raged on, but inside, laughter filled the cracks of their fragile home. Elena listened as Isabel laughed more freely than she had in months, the sound like bells against the rain.
And for the first time in a long time, Elena wondered if maybe, just maybe, life could hold something more than sorrow.
But as she glanced toward the horizon through the rain-smeared window, a chill passed through her.
Storms always came with warnings.
The storm clouds thickened by the hour. By afternoon, the sky had dimmed to an unsettling gray, as though the world itself had grown weary. Elena stood by the window, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. The bitter warmth steadied her nerves, though it did little to soften the knot in her chest.
Behind her, Isabel hummed quietly while sewing a small tear in the blanket. Her hands shook with the effort, but she worked with determined patience.
"You should rest," Elena said without turning.
"I'm tired of resting," Isabel replied, smiling faintly. "If I rest any more, I'll forget how to live."
Elena's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but there was something in Isabel's tone that silenced her.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Elena set down her mug and quickly wiped her hands on her apron before opening it.
There, standing against the backdrop of the darkening sky, was a young man she had never seen before. His clothes were neat but damp with sea mist, his hair unruly, his expression uncertain yet kind.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice steady but gentle. "I'm looking for Father Gabriel. I was told he lives near the chapel, but I seem to have lost my way."
Elena blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes were warm brown, steady in a way that made her feel both exposed and strangely safe.
"He does," she said finally. "But you're far from the chapel. It's a twenty-minute walk from here."
The young man chuckled lightly, scratching the back of his neck. "I suppose my sense of direction isn't as good as I thought." He glanced at the sky. "It looks like rain again. Would you mind if I waited here until it passes?"
Elena hesitated. She wasn't accustomed to strangers, especially men. Too many memories of her father's anger still lived in her bones. But before she could answer, Isabel's voice called out from behind her:
"Who is it, Elena?"
Elena turned slightly. "Just someone lost."
"Invite him in, then!" Isabel said cheerfully. "The storm will drench him otherwise."
The young man smiled apologetically. "Only if it's no trouble."
Elena sighed softly, stepping aside. "Come in."
Inside, the young man removed his damp coat and held it awkwardly, as though afraid of imposing. Isabel's face lit up when she saw him.
"Hello," she said brightly. "I'm Isabel."
He bowed his head slightly. "Daniel. Daniel Cruz."
The name lingered in Elena's mind. Simple. Honest. Somehow it fit him.
Daniel sat on the edge of the wooden chair while Isabel peppered him with questions—where he was from, what brought him here, whether he liked the sea. He answered each patiently, with a quiet humor that made Isabel giggle.
Elena, meanwhile, remained cautious. She busied herself with pouring tea, her ears catching every word.
"I'm here for my studies," Daniel explained. "Medicine, actually. Father Gabriel was kind enough to suggest lodging in town while I help at the clinic."
"A doctor?" Isabel's eyes widened with admiration.
"Not yet," Daniel corrected with a smile. "Still a student. But one day, hopefully."
Elena placed the mug in front of him. "It won't be long before the rain starts," she said quietly. "You should stay until it eases."
Daniel met her gaze and nodded. "Thank you. You're very kind."
She looked away quickly, unaccustomed to such direct gratitude.
When the rain finally came, it was sudden and fierce, drumming against the roof in heavy sheets. The three of them sat together in the small kitchen, the air filled with the scent of wet earth and brewing tea. Isabel leaned forward eagerly, listening as Daniel told stories from his studies—patients he had helped, the long nights in lecture halls, the first time he saw a child take a breath after a difficult birth.
Elena watched quietly, her brush still stained with paint from earlier, her canvas drying by the window. She told herself she wasn't interested, that his stories were nothing more than noise. But she caught herself listening, caught herself softening, caught herself noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
It unsettled her.
"Do you like painting?" Daniel asked suddenly, nodding toward the canvas.
Elena stiffened. "It's nothing."
"It's beautiful," Daniel said, studying the horizon she had captured. "There's something… alive in it. Like it's breathing."
Her heart skipped. She wanted to brush off the compliment, to retreat into silence. But Isabel beat her to it.
"My sister is amazing," Isabel declared. "She could fill galleries with her work if she wanted."
Daniel turned back to Elena, his smile soft. "Then the world is lucky to have her paintings in it."
Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks. She stood abruptly, muttering something about needing more tea.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Isabel hide a small grin.
Hours passed. The storm raged on, but inside, laughter filled the cracks of their fragile home. Elena listened as Isabel laughed more freely than she had in months, the sound like bells against the rain.
And for the first time in a long time, Elena wondered if maybe, just maybe, life could hold something more than sorrow.
But as she glanced toward the horizon through the rain-smeared window, a chill passed through her.
Storms always came with warnings.
The rain carried on through the night, relentless. It hammered the roof in angry bursts, seeped through cracks in the window frames, and drummed a rhythm that made the walls tremble. For most people, it was just another storm. For Elena, it was a reminder—of nights when her father's anger matched the thunder outside, of hiding under blankets with Isabel, praying for silence.
She lay awake on the narrow bed she shared with her sister. Isabel slept soundly beside her, her breathing soft and uneven, her thin hand curled near her chest. Elena reached out and adjusted the blanket over her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Isabel's lips twitched into a faint smile even in sleep. That was Isabel—always dreaming, always finding some sliver of light no matter how heavy the darkness pressed in.
Elena turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts wandered against her will: to the stranger who wasn't quite a stranger anymore.
Daniel.
There was something disarming about the way he spoke—gentle, unhurried, as if he wasn't afraid of silences. Most people in town filled the air with gossip or complaints, but Daniel had listened more than he had spoken. And when he had spoken, it wasn't with arrogance or pity but with an earnestness she wasn't used to.
It unsettled her. It made her feel seen, and being seen was dangerous.
She closed her eyes tightly. Don't be foolish, Elena. Don't start imagining things that aren't meant for you.
She was a caretaker, a sister, a girl clinging to scraps of survival. She had no space for dreams, especially not ones involving strangers with warm eyes and kind smiles.
Sleep came slowly, restless and fragile.
By morning, the storm had quieted, leaving behind a heavy stillness. The streets outside were muddy, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and sea salt.
Daniel was gone by the time Elena rose. He had left a polite note on the table, written in neat handwriting:
Thank you for your kindness. I hope we meet again. —Daniel.
Elena stared at the note longer than she meant to, her fingers brushing over the ink. She wanted to crumple it and throw it away, but instead, she folded it carefully and slipped it into the drawer where she kept her paintbrushes.
"Are you blushing?" Isabel teased from the doorway, her hair messy from sleep.
"I am not," Elena said quickly.
Isabel giggled. "You're terrible at lying."
Elena shot her a look, but it only made Isabel laugh harder. For a moment, the sound filled the small kitchen, chasing away the lingering heaviness of the storm.
Days passed, and life returned to its quiet rhythm. Elena worked at the baker's in town, scrubbing trays and wiping tables for a few coins. Isabel spent her mornings helping Father Gabriel with the children at the chapel, though Elena worried the effort was too much for her.
But every now and then, Elena would catch sight of Daniel—at the market, outside the clinic, speaking with Father Gabriel near the chapel steps. Each time, their eyes would meet briefly. He would smile. She would look away quickly, pretending to be busy, her heart betraying her with its sudden quickness.
Isabel noticed, of course. Isabel noticed everything.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Isabel nudged her sister with a mischievous grin. "You should invite him to see your paintings."
Elena shook her head firmly. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because they're mine," Elena said. "Because I don't need anyone else's approval."
But the truth was simpler: she was afraid. Afraid of hope. Afraid of what it meant to want something more than survival.
Another storm came a week later. Elena was at the bakery when the skies opened, sending people running for cover. She lingered at the doorway, clutching her shawl tightly around her.
"Elena!"
The voice rose above the rain, and she turned to see Daniel approaching, his coat already soaked through. He looked ridiculous, drenched and breathless, but his smile was undeterred.
"You'll get sick," Elena said sharply, stepping back under the awning.
"Then let me walk you home before I do," Daniel replied, half-laughing.
She wanted to refuse, but the rain was merciless. And so, reluctantly, she let him fall into step beside her.
They walked through puddles and mud, the storm lashing around them. Yet somehow, with him beside her, the rain felt less cruel.
"Why medicine?" Elena asked suddenly, surprising herself.
Daniel glanced at her, his hair plastered to his forehead. "Because I couldn't save my mother."
The words silenced her. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, she saw not just kindness but grief—grief buried deep, hidden behind smiles.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
Daniel shook his head. "Don't be. It's what drives me now. If I can help even one person live, then maybe it wasn't all in vain."
Something in his voice resonated with her, echoing her own unspoken vow: If I can keep Isabel safe, then maybe my pain will have meaning.
When they reached her home, the rain still pounded, but she lingered at the doorway. Daniel looked at her, waiting.
"Thank you," she said finally, her voice almost lost to the storm.
His smile was small but genuine. "Anytime."
And for reasons she couldn't explain, Elena felt something shift inside her.
That night, after Isabel had gone to bed, Elena sat by the small desk near the window. She pulled out a scrap of paper, dipped her pen in ink, and began to write.
Dear Daniel,
I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because words are safer on paper than spoken aloud. Maybe because if I don't write them, they'll drown inside me.
She paused, chewing her lip.
You remind me of sunlight after storms. And that terrifies me.
She folded the letter quickly, shoved it into the wooden box beneath her bed, and blew out the candle.
The rain outside slowed to a drizzle, but inside her chest, a new storm had begun.
The following days blurred into a quiet pattern, though Elena felt the undercurrent of change stirring in ways she couldn't name. She tried to ignore it, tried to bury herself in routine—painting in the mornings, working at the bakery, tending to Isabel in the evenings. But the smallest things betrayed her: the way her brush lingered too long on soft shades of brown, the way her heart stuttered when she passed the clinic, the way she found herself looking for someone in every crowd.
Daniel.
She hated herself for it. For the way his presence seemed to infiltrate every corner of her thoughts. She had spent years building walls, teaching herself to feel only what was necessary for survival. But his kindness chipped at those walls in small, dangerous ways.
And Isabel, of course, noticed.
"Elena," she teased one afternoon as she braided her sister's hair. "If you keep looking at the door like that, it might just open by itself."
Elena swatted her hand lightly. "Stop imagining things."
"I don't need to imagine. I see it." Isabel grinned. "You like him."
Elena's breath caught. "I don't."
"Yes, you do." Isabel's tone softened. "And he likes you, too."
Elena turned, meeting her sister's gaze. There was no mockery in Isabel's eyes, only quiet certainty.
"He deserves someone whole," Elena said bitterly. "Not someone broken. Not someone tied down by…" She gestured helplessly toward their small, crumbling home. "…by this."
Isabel's fingers stilled in her hair. "You're not broken, Elena. You're the strongest person I know."
The words stung, because Elena didn't believe them. But Isabel did—and maybe that was enough, for now.
One evening, the chapel bells rang for vespers, their somber notes echoing through the damp streets. Elena walked with Isabel to the small stone church, its candles flickering through stained glass. Father Gabriel greeted them warmly at the door, his eyes softening when he saw Isabel's pale face.
Inside, the air smelled of incense and old wood. Villagers knelt in silence, their murmured prayers rising like whispers to the rafters. Elena bowed her head, though the words she spoke never felt like they reached heaven.
After the service, as they stepped into the cool evening air, Elena saw him again. Daniel stood near the chapel steps, speaking with Father Gabriel. His expression was animated, his hands gesturing as he spoke of something Elena couldn't hear.
When his eyes found hers, his face lit up in a smile.
"Elena," he said, as though the name itself carried warmth.
Her heart betrayed her again, leaping at the sound. She looked away quickly, focusing on Isabel beside her.
"You didn't tell me you'd be here," Daniel continued, walking toward them.
"I don't tell you everything," Elena said coolly, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.
Daniel only chuckled. "Fair enough." He turned to Isabel, bowing slightly. "And how are you today, Isabel?"
Isabel beamed, leaning on her sister's arm. "Better now. Church always makes me feel lighter."
Daniel's gaze softened, and for a moment, Elena thought she saw grief flicker in his eyes again. "I'm glad," he said quietly. "Faith has a way of carrying us when we can't walk on our own."
Elena studied him carefully. There was a weight in his words, one she longed to understand but didn't dare ask about.
That night, as the town settled into silence, Elena returned to her desk. The box under her bed was heavier now, filled with scraps of unsent letters. Each one a confession she couldn't bring herself to speak aloud.
She pulled out another sheet of paper, dipped her pen in ink, and began again.
Dear Daniel,
You make Isabel laugh, and for that alone, I am grateful. I don't know what you see when you look at me, but I hope it isn't the shadows I feel inside. I am not someone people choose. I am someone they leave. But still, I find myself wishing you would stay.
Her hand trembled as she wrote. She folded the letter, slipped it into the box, and shut it firmly.
The rain began again outside, light at first, then steady. Elena leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane, watching droplets race each other down the glass.
"When will it stop?" she whispered to herself.
But the rain only fell harder, as though mocking her question.
The following morning, Elena awoke to the sound of Isabel coughing. Harsh, racking coughs that shook her small frame. Elena rushed to her side, heart pounding.
"Breathe, Isa. Just breathe."
Isabel clutched at the blanket, her face pale, her lips tinged with blue. It passed after a moment, leaving her exhausted. She tried to smile, but the effort only made Elena's eyes sting with unshed tears.
"I'm fine," Isabel whispered hoarsely.
"No, you're not," Elena snapped, her voice breaking. "And I can't keep pretending you are."
Isabel's eyes softened. "Don't be afraid for me."
But Elena was. Terrified, in fact. Terrified in ways she couldn't put into words.
She held her sister tightly, the storm outside rising once more.
And in that moment, as thunder rolled over the sea, Elena felt the quiet dread that her world was beginning to unravel.
The morning after Isabel's coughing fit, Elena could barely concentrate on her chores. The bucket of water she carried from the well sloshed and spilled down her dress, the bread she kneaded tore clumsily beneath her hands, and her brush strokes on canvas were uneven, restless. Her thoughts circled endlessly: Isabel's shallow breaths, her trembling hands, the way her laughter had grown weaker each passing week.
Elena wanted to scream at the sky, to bargain with whatever power governed fate. Take me instead. Leave her alone.
But the sky only answered with silence.
By late afternoon, Father Gabriel visited as promised. He examined Isabel with careful eyes, speaking softly as though not to startle her. Elena stood by, wringing her hands, searching his face for any sign of reassurance.
"She is strong in spirit," the priest said finally, rising from Isabel's bedside. "But her body…" He hesitated, his expression grave. "You must prepare yourself, Elena. Illness is a tide we cannot always turn."
Elena's chest constricted. "There must be something—medicine, treatment—"
Father Gabriel laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Have faith. Care for her. That is all any of us can do."
Isabel, listening from the bed, smiled faintly. "Don't look so frightened, Lena. I'm not leaving you yet."
Her calmness only deepened Elena's despair.
That evening, Daniel knocked on their door. His presence filled the small home with a warmth Elena hadn't realized she needed. He checked Isabel's breathing, his brow furrowed, his hands steady and precise. Isabel teased him lightly, calling him "Doctor" though he corrected her with a sheepish smile.
When Isabel drifted off to sleep, Daniel stepped outside with Elena. The air was damp with the smell of rain-soaked earth.
"She needs more than I can give," Daniel admitted, his voice low. "I'll speak with the physician in the city. Maybe he'll come here, or maybe I can bring back the medicines she needs."
Elena's throat tightened. "And if there's nothing they can do?"
Daniel's silence was answer enough.
The waves crashed in the distance. Elena wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, fighting the sting of tears.
"I can't lose her," she whispered.
Daniel looked at her then, his eyes steady, unwavering. "You're not alone, Elena. Whatever happens, you won't face it alone."
The words struck something deep within her—a promise, fragile yet profound. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust that he meant it. But promises had broken her before, and she didn't know if her heart could survive another.
Still, for the first time in years, she didn't feel entirely abandoned.
That night, Elena sat at her desk again. The wooden box beneath her bed was nearly full now, stuffed with letters she would never send. She pulled out another page, her hand trembling.
Dear Daniel,
You said I won't face this alone. I want to believe you. But I've learned that even the kindest promises can shatter. If you truly mean to stay, I don't know what that will do to me. Because I am afraid, more than I can ever say, of needing someone again.
She stopped, tears smudging the ink. With shaking hands, she folded the letter and placed it with the others.
Outside, the rain began once more. Gentle at first, then heavier, until it consumed everything—the roof, the windows, the fragile silence of her home.
Elena closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her. It was a storm like any other. But deep down, she knew: this was only the beginning.
The rain would not stop. Not yet.
And neither would the trials waiting for them.