The road stretched endlessly ahead. Antonia drove with her hands gripping the wheel, her knuckles white—betraying the fury and despair boiling inside her. Beside her, Gabriela stared out the window, headphones on, pretending not to hear her mother's muffled sobs.
The glass reflected her own face back at her: freckles scattered across her skin, and those mismatched eyes—one white with a black iris, the other as dark as night. She looked strange. She had always looked strange. And that word haunted her like a curse: strange, strange, strange.
Memories crashed into her mind, one after another, like stones hurled against the fragile glass of her thoughts.
"You're always late, always!" Her mother's voice echoed inside her, the same one that had so often filled the living room of the home they no longer had. "Who were you with this time?"
"You can't be reasoned with," her father would answer, arms crossed, his coldness cutting deeper than any shout. "You're toxic, Antonia. You don't understand anything."
"Of course I don't understand! How could I possibly understand you cheating on me in my own house? How do I understand you going after a girl twenty years younger?"
"Because she doesn't suffocate me," he would reply, calm and cruel, while Gabriela, hidden on the staircase, fought back sobs.
Fights were their nightly ritual. The echo of insults still rang in Gabriela's head, as if no time had passed since that final slammed door. Now, without a home, without a car, without anything, all that remained was the monthly payment her father sent "for the girl." That phrase pierced her like a knife: the girl—not his daughter, not someone he loved, just an obligation, a bill to pay.
Gabriela bit her lip until she tasted iron. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears slipped out anyway. Music filled her ears, but even that couldn't drown the emptiness hollowing her out. She had cried so many nights in silence that it had become mechanical, like breathing.
The car finally rolled to a stop in front of a wooden cabin, lonely on the edge of a small town. The place where her mother had been born. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, so different from the city they'd left behind.
Antonia killed the engine but didn't get out right away. Her eyes were red, her skin pulled tight from too much crying. She forced a smile at her daughter.
"Come on, Gabi. This… this is our new beginning."
Gabriela pulled off her headphones and met her mother's gaze. Her voice cracked, but her words carried a sharpness that was all armor.
"Really, Mom? A new beginning? Dad left us with nothing… and all you do is cry over him."
The silence that followed hit harder than any argument. Antonia swallowed, her daughter's words tearing her chest apart.
"Don't talk like that," she whispered, though her voice had no strength. "I… I loved him."
Gabriela got out without answering, slamming the door. The cold wind whipped through her hair, and for a fleeting moment she wished she could be someone else—another life, another face, other parents. She walked up to the cabin and stared at it. Old, worn wood, a porch that creaked at the slightest movement. A place forgotten by time, just like her.
Antonia came up behind her and placed a trembling hand on her shoulder.
"I know this is hard. But we have to try."
Gabriela turned to face her, those mismatched eyes gleaming. A single tear slid down her cheek.
"You had Dad… and you lost him. I never had anyone, Mom. Never."
The words cut the air like glass. Antonia reached to hug her, but Gabriela stepped back. The girl was trapped between grief and fury, crushed by the isolation that had clung to her since birth. No boy had ever dared come close; they all preferred mocking her eyes, her freckles, the strange way she existed.
Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she drew in a shaky breath. Her gaze drifted toward the town in the distance—stone streets, old lanterns, unfamiliar faces. A place where people would surely look at her the same way as always: first with curiosity, then with scorn.
But something burned inside her chest. A strange fire, born from pain too heavy to bear.
"I don't want to live like this anymore," she whispered, barely audible, her lips trembling. "I'm tired of being invisible, of crying in silence. If this place is going to be my hell… it'll also be where I change my life."
Antonia didn't fully understand. Gabriela, headphones hanging around her neck, lifted her chin and took the first step toward the cabin.
That town had no idea what was coming.
Gabriela crossed the threshold and felt it instantly: this house wasn't hers. The smell of old wood, the dusty furniture, the silence as heavy as a coffin.
This feels like a place for people already dead inside… she thought bitterly. But soon she couldn't hold it in.
"I hate this house!" she shouted, eyes brimming. "It looks like it's meant for old people!"
Her mother froze, words failing her. Lips trembling, searching for something to say, some excuse to soften the blow—but nothing came.
Gabriela didn't wait. She ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard. That loneliness was the final push.
With trembling hands, she dug into her bag. The bottle was there, hidden for days. Without hesitation, she poured the pills into her palm and swallowed them all at once. The bitter taste burned her throat.
Five minutes passed. Dizziness hit her like a black wave. Staggering, she unlocked the door and stumbled out to the backyard. The cold night air gave no relief. In front of her loomed the water tower, its massive tank suspended high above. Perfect. The ending she deserved.
She climbed with faltering steps, vision blurred with tears. At the top, she opened her hands, closed her eyes, and let herself fall.
But she never hit the ground.
Strong hands caught her midair, as if fate itself had intervened. Gabriela's eyes flew open, stunned.
A boy stood before her. Young, with golden hair that shimmered in the moonlight, and sharp, feline eyes that pierced straight through her. Her heart lurched wildly in her chest. But something else stole her breath, like a sky lit with shooting stars: one of his eyes was just like hers. White, gleaming, like shattered glass.
He set her gently on the ground.
"Why would you try something like that?" His voice was deep, steady.
"I just… want to stop hurting…" Gabriela whispered, barely conscious.
"Don't be foolish. Life—" he began, but his words faded as she shut her eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.
When she awoke, she was lying on the living room couch. She touched her chest, her arms, her face—everything was still there.
"What… happened?" she murmured.
Then she saw it. In her hand was a folded letter, written in elegant strokes of some strange language she couldn't understand. She only knew one thing: that boy wasn't ordinary. He bore a mark like hers… and that couldn't be coincidence.
She breathed deeply, and for the first time in so long, fear and curiosity tangled inside her. A thought struck her sharp and sudden:
Was it a dream? Or was that boy real?