The days stretched into weeks.
Lucky learned how to smile again—small, hesitant smiles that flickered and vanished quickly. Adrian said she looked better, healthier. He started taking her out: to the market, to the park, to small cafés where she sat quietly and watched people laugh as if happiness were easy.
But something inside her never relaxed. Sometimes, when she walked too far from him, she'd feel his gaze following her like a shadow. When she talked to others, he would draw closer, his hand resting too long on her shoulder. The warmth that had once calmed her began to feel like a leash.
"People here can be dangerous," he told her one evening, his tone soft but firm. "You shouldn't talk to strangers without me."
She wanted to believe he was only being protective. After all, he had saved her. Fed her. Given her a place to sleep. Gratitude became a kind of debt she didn't understand how to repay.
That night she dreamed of the river again—her reflection calling her name, asking her to come back. When she woke, Adrian was standing by her bed, watching her breathe. He smiled when she stirred, as if nothing were wrong.
Lucky forced herself to smile back, but her stomach turned.
For the first time since she met him, she realized kindness can have a price. And sometimes, it's one you can't afford to pay.