The silence of the kitchen pressed against Marin's skin like an invisible weight. It was not the kind of silence that brought peace. It was heavy, suffocating, a warning of what might come next.
The man's body lay on the tiled floor, sprawled in a twisted heap. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically. He was unconscious, but alive.
He's still breathing.
TUM, TUM, TUM.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as if it wanted to tear free. Each beat was a reminder of the danger that had not yet passed.
Marin forced herself to move closer. Her steps were cautious, her knees trembling. She leaned forward slightly, keeping enough distance that she could flee if he stirred. The side of his head showed a swelling bruise where the porcelain vase had shattered. No blood, only the angry mark of violence.
He's going to wake up. And when he does…
TUM, TUM, TUM.
Her stomach tightened into knots. She already knew how it would unfold. He would twist the story, paint himself as the victim, and her aunt—blinded by duty and appearances—would believe him. Marin had no voice in that household. She never had. Everything she owned, every crumb she ate, every breath she took under that roof, was labeled as charity.
They'll say I'm ungrateful. They'll say I wanted this.
The thought made bile rise in her throat. She stepped back, clutching her arms tightly across her chest as if she could hold herself together.
But then a sharper realization struck her: this could not continue. The cycle of silence, suspicion, and fear had to end. She had only two months until she turned eighteen—two fragile, endless months. Waiting would mean risk, endless nights barricading her door, endless days watching for the flicker of desire in his eyes.
No. I can't stay. If I stay, I'll break.
The decision solidified in her chest. There was only one option left: she had to run.
Yet running demanded resources she did not have. Money was a wall she had never been allowed to climb. Her labor in the house had never earned her even a coin. She owned nothing of value—nothing except…
Her fingers drifted to the chain around her neck. The cool touch of the small silver locket anchored her. She closed her hand around it, gripping it so tightly the edges bit into her palm. The medal had a dent at one corner, a flaw her aunt dismissed as cheap trinketry. But Marin knew better. It was real silver. And it was the last tangible gift from her mother.
A memory rose, unbidden: her mother's warm hands fastening the chain around her small neck, her gentle whisper, "Never take this off, my little star. Keep it close, and it will keep you safe."
Marin's eyes stung.
I'm sorry, Mother. I don't want to let it go. But if I don't… I'll never escape this prison.
Her choice was made.
She rushed to the small room that had been her shelter—the dusty storage closet her aunt had disguised as "her bedroom." She snatched up the battered backpack she kept in the corner. Clothes, only a handful. A toothbrush, a comb, a threadbare towel. That was all. She paused at the threshold, letting her eyes sweep over the cracked walls, the tiny window half-covered by cardboard, the old desk she had used to barricade the door at night.
Good riddance.
No note. No goodbye. Nothing to tether her to this house of shadows.
Her legs felt unsteady as she crossed the living room and opened the front door. The air outside hit her like a wave—cold, fresh, real. She hesitated only for a second, then stepped out, letting the door click shut behind her.
The pawnshop sat on a quiet corner between two decaying buildings, its windows covered with grime, its display cases showing dull watches and broken instruments. Marin entered, her backpack heavy on her shoulder though she carried so little. The scent of old wood and rust clung to the air.
Behind the counter, an older man with gray hair and a face hardened like stone raised his eyes from a newspaper. His gaze pinned her in place, sharp and assessing.
"What do you want to sell?" he asked flatly.
Marin swallowed. Her hand trembled as she lifted the chain from her neck. The locket glimmered faintly under the dusty lights. She set it on the counter as if laying down a piece of her soul.
Her fingers lingered, reluctant to let go.
The man plucked it up, studied it through a small magnifying lens, and grunted. "Silver. Real, but damaged. I can offer you…"
The number he spoke landed in her chest like a dull blade. It was less than she hoped, far less than what the locket meant.
TUM, TUM, TUM.
It's not enough for what it is. But it has to be enough for me.
Her throat ached as she nodded. The man counted the bills and slid them across the counter. Marin seized them with both hands, clutching them so tightly that the paper crumpled.
This is my freedom. This is my chance.
She stuffed the notes deep into her pocket and turned, her chest hollow and burning at once. The door's bell jingled as she left, and for the first time, her neck felt bare, exposed.
Forgive me, Mother.
The train station buzzed with chaotic life. Commuters, travelers, families with children, vendors shouting over the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of oil and iron, the screech of wheels, the heavy breath of locomotives. Marin moved through it like a shadow, her grip tight around the money in her pocket.
At the ticket booth, she faced a young employee with tired eyes. "The farthest ticket this can buy," she said, sliding the crumpled bills onto the counter.
The worker raised a brow, glanced at her, then at the money. He didn't ask questions, didn't care about the desperation in her voice. He handed her a ticket.
When the train roared into the station, she joined the surge of passengers. Her pulse quickened as she climbed the metal steps and entered the carriage. The seat was hard, the air stuffy, but to Marin, it felt like the edge of salvation.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching as the station blurred. The familiar streets slipped away, swallowed by distance.
No more chains. No more shadows. I will never go back.
For the first time, Marin felt a strange, bittersweet relief. She was alone. Truly alone. But this solitude held promise, not despair.
The train rumbled forward, carrying her toward an uncertain future. The rhythm of the tracks matched the pounding in her chest. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a single breath of fragile peace.
The escape had begun.
The train screeched as it slowed, the iron wheels screaming against the tracks. Marin opened her eyes to the blur of foreign streets, her body sore from hours in the stiff seat. Her heart raced with anticipation, and with dread.
When the train doors hissed open, a wave of new air washed over her—different, cleaner, sharper than the city she had left behind. She stepped onto the platform, her backpack slung over one shoulder, clutching her ticket stub like it might still tether her to safety.
This is it. A new place. No one knows me here. No one owns me.
The station swarmed with travelers dragging luggage, children clinging to their parents, vendors shouting offers for cheap food. Marin blended into the crowd, invisible and unnoticed. That anonymity gave her a fleeting comfort.
But the next problem pressed in immediately. Where will I sleep?
She was still underage. That meant no landlord would accept her papers, no employer would risk the responsibility. She could lie, pretend to be eighteen, but she had neither the false confidence nor the forged documents to make the act convincing.
I can't stay in the streets. If I do, I'll be caught. They'll send me back.
The thought chilled her. The possibility of her aunt discovering her absence, the man's voice twisting the truth, the police dragging her back like a runaway child. No. She had come too far.
Marin wandered through the city for hours, her eyes darting over storefronts, alleys, tall buildings that dwarfed her. The streets were unfamiliar, filled with noise and movement, yet a loneliness settled deep in her bones. Is this freedom? A road with no signposts, no one to guide me, no hand to hold?
But she reminded herself: Better lost in freedom than chained in that house.
As the sky darkened, her search led her to a discreet building tucked between two taller ones. The sign above the door was simple, worn, yet welcoming. Inside, she found a women's shelter—plain walls, the smell of soup, voices low and tired.
A staff member, a woman with soft lines on her face and a steady gaze, approached her. "Do you need a place to stay?"
Marin hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Just… for a while."
The woman didn't push for details. She asked no invasive questions, didn't demand stories Marin wasn't ready to tell. All she said was, "We can offer you a bed. It won't be permanent, but you'll be safe for now."
Safe. The word was almost foreign to Marin's ears.
She was led to a small room lined with bunks. The sheets were plain, the mattress thin, but to her it felt like a sanctuary. She set her backpack down and sat on the edge of the bed, her body trembling with exhaustion.
I made it. For tonight, at least, I'm safe.
Her chest ached when she thought of the locket, the emptiness at her throat where it once rested. But then she looked at the crumpled bills still hidden in her pocket, and reminded herself: That sacrifice bought me this. A bed. A chance. A future.
The shelter had rules: no long stays, no trouble, no questions answered dishonestly. Marin understood. This place was a pause, not a destination. She would need more than temporary safety.
Days blurred into weeks. Marin adjusted to the rhythm of the shelter. Meals were simple but consistent. The other women each carried their own secrets, their own scars. They didn't pry into hers, and she didn't pry into theirs.
It was the first time in her life she could choose when to sleep, when to wake, when to speak. Such small freedoms tasted like luxury.
But the uncertainty gnawed at her. What happens when they tell me to leave? Where will I go once my time here runs out?
She counted the days on a scrap of paper. Two months. Two months until she turned eighteen. Then she could sign her own documents, rent her own room, claim her own identity.
Two months had never felt so long.
At night, lying on the thin mattress, she let her thoughts drift to the sea. She remembered fleeting childhood memories—her mother pointing out the distant horizon during a rare trip to the coast, telling her, "The ocean has no walls, no chains. If you ever feel trapped, imagine it, and remember that freedom exists."
Marin clung to that memory now.
The idea grew inside her like a seed taking root: the Navy. A place where the ocean was not a distant dream, but a daily reality. A place where she could learn skills, earn her own living, and stand on her own without fear of being dragged back.
Yes. That's where I belong. The sea doesn't care about my past. It only asks that I face it with strength.
Her decision crystallized. She would wait. She would endure these last weeks of waiting, and then, as soon as she was of age, she would enlist.
One evening, Marin found herself standing outside the shelter, gazing at the bustling city. Neon lights flickered in shop windows, voices echoed from crowded bars, the world moved on as if her escape had been nothing. She touched her bare throat unconsciously, the phantom weight of the locket haunting her.
Mother, I couldn't keep your gift. But I'll carry your memory with me, always. When I stand at the edge of the ocean, I'll think of you. And when I sail away, it will be for both of us.
The fear remained, of course. She was still a runaway, still a girl with almost nothing to her name. But the fear no longer defined her. Beneath it, something steadier was beginning to grow—resolve.
She inhaled deeply, the air of this unknown city filling her lungs. She didn't know what trials lay ahead. Hunger, loneliness, rejection—all were possible, even certain.
But Marin had made a vow to herself: she would never return.
Her journey had only just begun.