The river swallowed me whole, but it couldn't take me away.
I don't remember the fall in full detail—just the roar of water, the cold that stabbed straight through my bones, and the brief, suffocating thought that maybe this was it. Maybe this was the end of Eleanor.
But it wasn't. Somehow, I survived. I clung to driftwood, pulled myself onto the muddy bank, and disappeared into the night, leaving behind everything that had tried to destroy me.
No one knew I was alive. Not my husband, not my stepmother, not even my father. They all thought the river had done its job. They all thought I was gone.
And for years, I let them believe it.
I learned quickly that survival wasn't just about staying alive—it was about becoming invisible. About watching, listening, understanding. About turning weakness into strategy. While the world mourned, I rebuilt. Every scar became a lesson; every fear became a tool.
The people I once trusted… the people who smiled while plotting my end… they had no idea the girl they tried to bury was still standing. Stronger. Smarter. Patient.
I let the river teach me that life is not about the falls—it's about how you rise after them. And I had risen.
But rising wasn't enough. Not yet. Because someday, they would see me again. And when they did, the river would no longer be my secret ally—it would only be a reminder that they had underestimated me.
Someday soon, they would remember my name, Eleanor.