the sky hung low, swollen with menace, a churning grey sea above the earth. It wasn't just a storm rolling in—it was something alive, ancient, and angry. Lena felt it in her bones long before the first gust of wind bent the trees like dancers caught mid-twist. She stood at the window, her small palms pressed against the glass, as if trying to push back the approaching chaos with sheer will.
Behind her, the house buzzed with tension. Her mother moved like a soldier—measured, brisk—boarding up windows with hands that trembled only slightly. Her father's voice, usually calm and sure, was clipped as he secured the doors. And her grandmother, eyes wise and wary, moved through the house like she was preparing for war—not with weapons, but with blankets, batteries, and jars of peanut butter.
Lena was supposed to be helping. But instead, she was watching the storm come to life.
"Lena, come away from the window," her mother called out, her voice cutting through the wind like a thread of warmth. "It's not safe."
Lena hesitated. The sky outside twisted in shades of charcoal and steel. The wind didn't just blow—it spoke, in low moans and sudden shrieks that seemed to call her name.
She turned reluctantly, stepping away from the glass just as a gust slapped the window with a sharp crack. Her heart jumped. The storm was laughing at them.
In the living room, the house was a fortress of comfort: soft lamplight, the rich scent of cinnamon cookies, the quiet buzz of the emergency radio. Lena curled into the crook of her grandmother's arm, trying to match her calm.
"We've weathered worse," Grandma whispered into her ear, as if sharing a secret. "We're strong, Lena. Stronger than any wind."
But the house didn't agree. It groaned under the strain, the timbers creaking like tired lungs. The storm clawed at the walls, testing every inch.
They passed the time with games, her father's voice steady as he explained the rules of a card game Lena had already forgotten. But the dice rolled like thunder, and every time they landed, it felt like something outside had fallen too.
Then came the scream.
Not from a person—but from the wind. It hit the house like a fist, and this time, the house screamed back. Windows shattered. A door slammed open somewhere with a bang like a gunshot. Lamps flickered, then died.
The storm had found a way in.
Before Lena could react, the world became motion. She was weightless, her body flung like a leaf on the tide. Wood splintered. Glass flew. She heard her mother shout her name—but the sound was torn away.
Darkness. Cold. Pain.
When Lena opened her eyes, the sky was a swirling blur above her, and the rain fell sideways. Her limbs ached. Her ears rang. Everything smelled of earth and fear.
"Mom?" she called out, voice hoarse. "Dad? Grandma?"
Nothing.
She stood, her feet slipping in the mud. Around her, the neighborhood was unrecognizable—a broken painting smeared by the storm's hand. Pieces of homes, trees, and toys lay tangled in the streets. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant and dying.
She moved, step by step, calling out again and again, but the only answer was the wind's fading growl.
And then it was quiet. Not peace—just the kind of silence that follows after something terrible has passed through.
Lena dropped to her knees. Tear