~Ciela
I was running.
The night was alive around me—branches snapping, leaves whispering, the frantic drum of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears. The ground was uneven beneath my feet, a patchwork of roots and stones that clawed at my soles as if they too wanted me to fall. The air was cold and sharp in my lungs, cutting with every breath.
Something was chasing me.
I didn't dare look back. I didn't need to. I could feel it—could hear the heavy rhythm of feet pounding after me, inhumanly fast, unrelenting. It wasn't alone. Voices, guttural and strange, carried through the trees. .
I pushed harder, legs screaming in protest, vision blurring with sweat and tears. The woods seemed endless, a labyrinth of shadows pressing closer the farther I ran. Every rustle in the leaves, every crack of a branch sent a new surge of terror through me. I wasn't fast enough. I could never be fast enough.
The growl came again. Low, monstrous. Nothing human made that sound.
Panic clawed at my chest, sharp and suffocating. My throat burned with every gasp. My body screamed at me to stop, to give in, to collapse and let the darkness take me.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
A root snagged my foot. I stumbled—then crashed forward, my knees slamming into the ground. Pain shot through me as the earth tore at my skin. For one suspended moment I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Then the footsteps thundered closer.
I forced myself to roll, clawing at the dirt, struggling to rise.
The shadow towered above me. Its shape shifted in the darkness—man and beast, neither and both. Teeth glinted, wet and sharp, a smile carved from nightmares. My heart stuttered.
I opened my mouth to scream—
Only to wake up and scream on my bed.
My heartbeat quickened, with my entire body still shaking from the shock of the dream. The room was quiet save for the sound of my breathing. I tired to convince myself that It was just a dream but my body refused to listen.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow the frantic thumping of my heart. But the sounds of the forest clung to me—the growls, the voices, the shape of the shadows.
My door creaked open. My father appeared at the doorway, his face etched with concern.
"Ciela?" His voice was low, almost like a whisper. It felt as if he didn't want to startle me further with loud noises. "What's the matter? I heard you scream."
I forced myself to meet his gaze, though my throat was still tight. "Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Just…a dream."
"Are you sure?" My dad pressed. "You know you can tell me anything."
"Yes I'm sure." I said with a smile. "No need to worry. I'll come out to help with breakfast in a while."
He studied me for a while nodding, the weight of fear and exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. "You don't have to rush to come out, you're not late. It's not 7am yet and besides, Damien is still asleep. Try to get some rest." he murmured before closing the door softly behind him.
But sleep was impossible. I sat there in the silence, watching as my chest rose and fell too fast, until the sunlight came out to signify the start of a new day.
By morning, I pulled myself together. My brother Damien sat at the kitchen table, his messy hair sticking up in every direction, a bowl of cereal in front of him. His innocence was a balm against the lingering terror of the night.
"Ready for school?" I asked, forcing brightness into my voice.
He grinned, milk on his lip. "Almost."
I smoothed his collar, my hands steady though my chest still carried the echo of that nightmare chase. It's just a dream, I reminded myself. Only a dream.
I walked him to school, the streets buzzing with life—the honk of cars, the chatter of vendors, the city alive in its ordinary rhythm.
After leaving him at the gates, I headed to the diner.
The scent of frying oil hit me the moment I stepped inside. My uniform clung to me in the sticky heat, the endless clatter of dishes and hiss of grease weaving into the drone of voices. I faked smiles at customers when I had to, jotted orders on my pad, carried trays until my arms ached. This was my life: endless repetition, a loop of exhaustion and survival.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, I thought about what it would be like to have friends here—to laugh with someone on my break, to share secrets over lukewarm coffee. But I was always alone. Loneliness had become as much a part of me as my name. I never finished school because my father decided to put all of him money into his company. A company he believed would make him a millionaire. It's been ten years since and we've not still seen the millions. I was very young then so I couldn't argue although I secretly blamed him for how my life turned out.
When my shift ended, I decided to stop by my father's office. He usually called me at intervals everyday to check up on me and see how I was doing. He's been like this ever since my mother died but today? He was quiet today and unease had been gnawing at me since the nightmare I had last night. I kept trying to convince myself that it was just a dream but it felt futile.
The sight that greeted me when I arrived at his office froze me in place.
Men in suits moved through the office like vultures, packing boxes, cataloging, stripping the room of every trace of my father's work. His desk, once cluttered with papers and sketches, was bare. The shelves stood empty. The air was heavy with finality.
I pushed past them, my voice trembling. "What's going on? What are you doing?"
One of them didn't even look at me. "Collecting assets. Company's in default."
I found my father at the far end of the room. He stood with his back to me, his posture bowed, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Dad," I whispered, my throat raw. "What is this? Why are they taking everything? Tell me they can't do this."
He turned, and the look in his eyes broke me. Defeat. Resignation.
"They can," he said, his voice low. "The debts…they've waited long enough."
"Debts? What are you talking about?" I inquired.
"I borrowed money a few years ago to keep this company afloat. My repayment of the loan was due six months ago." He said, his gaze avoiding my face. "They've come to collect everything."
"No." My voice rose, sharp, desperate. "You'll pay them back. We'll figure it out. They can't just take everything—"
"Yes, they can." His words cut through mine, final and flat. He looked at me as though the fight had already been beaten out of him. "There's nothing left to argue. I tried pleading with them, believe me I did. They didn't listen."
I wanted to scream, to throw myself at the men dismantling his life, to claw back what was ours. But I could only stand there, trembling.
"Just pick Damien from school and go home," he said quietly. "We'll figure something out later. I have to see if there's anything else I can try."
So I did. I left the building. I picked Damien up from school, his small hand warm in mine, his chatter about his day a fragile shield against the ruin pressing closer.
At home, I cooked dinner, going through the motions as if nothing had changed. Damien ate quickly, then drifted to bed, exhaustion softening his features.
I waited in silence until my father returned.
He sat heavily at the table, his face pale, his eyes hollow. "I borrowed the money years ago," he began, voice low and unsteady. "To build something for us. To give you and Damien a better future. But the company never grew enough. I tried to make payments, tried to keep them satisfied…but the deadline's long gone. They don't care about excuses anymore."
His hands shook as he rubbed his temples. "It's over, Ciela."
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. My chest ached.
I reached across the table, taking his hand in mine. "We'll find a way," I whispered. My voice was steady though my heart was breaking. "I don't know how, but we'll figure it out. We'll survive this. I promise."
He closed his eyes, a tremor running through him.
And I held his hand tighter, whispering promises I didn't know how to keep.