Far away, at the tallest building in the city, someone was crying.
The night had swallowed the stars; a new moon turned the sky into a black sheet. Winds ran along the rooftop like invisible hands. A lone figure stood at the broken railing, clothes snapping in the gusts, hair whipped loose by the air. One false step and the city would swallow her whole.
"Sniff… sniff," came the pathetic, tiny sound. It should have been terrifying to be so high; most people would clutch the rail, knees knocking, but she stood there inches from death with all her will, not to make a sound. Her chest heaved; her heart beat a frantic drum that drowned out the distant traffic and the neon hum below.
She had come to end it. To stop the ache that lived, felt like, forever with her. But the memory of her mother, small hands which used to caress her every day and night stopped her feets. Her mother had given everything for this life, were bleeding out to death, but still saved her from all the harms in world. How could she betray that sacrifice with one selfish step?
If she could turn time back to that one stubborn day, if she could undo the words, the decision that had cost her mother her life, she would. But history was a closed book, and the last page was smeared with blood. She is the reason her mother died.
"Forgive me," she murmured to the wind. The sound was thin, lost.
Her limbs trembled. The pain in her chest was not only guilt but a physical ache, an emotional haemorrhage that made breathing feel like a mistake.
But someone else's breath warmed the hollow behind her ear, and a hand, large, steady, found her elbow.
A man's voice, distant and impossible, threaded through her thoughts:
"Don't be foolish… you're not alone." The words were a balm, then a blade, so close to comfort and so far from truth. Since she lost her mother, no one has ever said that to her.
She turned, but the rooftop tilted; faces blurred. Someone shoved, gentle or violent she couldn't tell, and she stumbled outward. The scream that left her throat was animal and immediate.
"AHHHH!"
Aira woke choking, sweat slick down her spine, heart lurching as if it would bolt clean out of her ribs. The room was small and still. Moonlight through the curtains was soft and pale. Her nightgown clung to her skin; she did not reach for a blanket. The cold was an ally that might freeze the echo of the nightmare.
She padded to the window and leaned on the sill.
Her reflection in the glass was ghostly: hollowed eyes, the curve of her jaw sharp with the strain of too many sleepless nights.
She looked at the stars and said, "Mom… I dreamed of him again. He said I wasn't alone, and for a second I believed him — then I woke up and felt emptier than ever. I tell myself I deserve this, like it will make the pain smaller, but it doesn't.
Dad looks at me with hatred and disappointment now, and that hurts more than anything. I'm scared I'll end up doing what I've always dreamed about. I don't want to die — this life is yours — but this house is eating me. Everyone acts like I should be the one who's dead. Believe me, Mom, I wish that every day.
You died because of me, and here I am, an ungrateful wretch still hoping to disappear. Mom… have you forgiven me? Because this daughter of yours has lost this battle of guilt. I don't think I can bear this anymore."
The room was heavy with shadows, the black curtains swallowing even the faint light that tried to come through. She clung to the rough fabric, her fingers twisting it as though it could hold her together. Tears slipped down her cheeks without pause, falling into the silence. The more she pressed her face into it, the harder she sobbed, as if the darkness itself was the only thing left that would let her break apart.
She lay down on the cold floor, the chill pressing into her skin. Somehow it felt easier to breathe there, as if the pain was the only comfort she had left. Holding the black curtain close, she slowly cried herself to sleep.