Yura slept lightly that night.
Not the kind of sleep that rested you—
but the kind that only paused the pain.
Every time she shifted beneath the thin blanket, something in her shoulder protested. A dull ache, deep and familiar, as if her body was quietly reminding her of all the things it never forgot.
Her dreams were shallow. Fragmented.
Rain without faces.
Hands she couldn't see.
A weight pressing down on her chest.
Tap-Tap-Tap
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was cracked, a thin fracture crawling from one corner to the other like a vein. She had traced that crack so many times with her eyes that she could follow it even in the dark.
It's raining again.
The sound came from the window beside her bed. Gentle. Persistent. As if the sky had decided not to stop.
Her chest tightened before she could think.
"I hate the rain," she whispered.
Her voice sounded smaller in the quiet room.
She sat up slowly, careful not to move too fast. Her shoulder throbbed, and something sharp flickered behind her ribs. She pressed her palm there, breathing through it the way she always did.
Pain was inconvenient.
Pain slowed you down.
And Yura couldn't afford to slow down—not now, not ever.
The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt oil and old coffee.
Her aunt was already awake, sitting at the table with her phone angled toward her face. The television murmured softly in the background—some morning show she never actually watched.
"You're late," Aunt Lila said without looking up.
"I just woke up," Yura replied quietly, tying her hair into a low ponytail.
Ron snorted from the couch. "Always an excuse."
She didn't respond.
A small object flew past her shoulder—plastic, light, but thrown hard enough to sting when it hit the wall.
"Clean that," her aunt said flatly. "And don't forget the dishes. Properly this time."
Yura nodded.
She always nodded.
She wiped the counter, washed the dishes, changed her shoes. When she reached for her jacket, Ron's gaze lingered on her a moment too long.
"Don't come back late," he said. "Or don't come back at all."
Her fingers tightened around the door handle.
"Yes," she murmured.
Outside, the rain greeted her like an old enemy.
---
The university campus looked muted under the gray sky. Colors dulled. Voices dampened. Students huddled beneath umbrellas, laughing, complaining, living.
Yura walked alone.
Her sneakers squelched faintly with every step. She kept her head down, counting tiles on the pavement.
One. Two. Three.
"Why does it keep raining lately?" someone groaned nearby. "Seriously, it's been days."
She flinched.
Her grip on her bag tightened.
Please stop.
The hallway outside her classroom buzzed with noise. Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped.
Serena stood near the lockers, flawless as always.
"Oh," Serena said loudly, her eyes flicking to Yura's damp sleeves. "Is it just me, or does it smell like cafeteria oil again?"
Laughter rippled.
Yura froze.
"I mean," Serena continued with a sweet smile, "some people really shouldn't work food jobs if they can't keep themselves clean."
A cup tipped—accidentally—and cold liquid splashed across Yura's shoes.
"Oh no," Serena gasped. "I'm so clumsy."
More laughter.
Yura bent down without a word, wiping at the mess with a tissue.
Just endure.
That was all she knew how to do.
---
She slipped into her seat just as the lecture began.
At the front of the room stood Professor Elyndor.
White hair. Wire-framed glasses. Calm posture.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
As he spoke, the room slowly quieted.
Yura tried to focus. She really did.
But she felt it again.
That sensation.
Like someone was watching her—not with curiosity, not with judgment, but with something heavier.
Elyndor's gaze paused on her.
Just briefly.
Long enough to notice the damp fabric.
The way she held her shoulder too stiffly.
The faint metallic scent beneath the soap.
Blood.
His jaw tightened.
Outside, the rain pressed harder against the windows.
He said nothing.
The lecture continued.
---
After class, Yura packed slowly. She waited until most students had left.
"Yura Dela Vega."
Her breath caught.
"Yes, Professor?"
"You seem unwell."
Her fingers clenched around her notebook. "I'm fine."
A lie. Polite. Automatic.
Elyndor studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
"If you require additional library access," he said evenly, "inform me."
She nodded. "Thank you."
As she turned away, her palm burned.
Sharp. Sudden.
She gasped, stumbling slightly.
Outside, the rain intensified.
Her scar throbbed beneath her skin.
She didn't know why.
She only knew—
The rain wouldn't stop.
And neither would the ache in her chest.
—
The rain followed Yura all the way to the storage wing.
By the time classes ended, the hallway near the old seminar rooms was nearly empty. The lights flickered faintly overhead, casting pale reflections across the polished floor. This part of the building was older—used less often, forgotten by most students.
That was why she liked it.
She slipped her cleaning gloves on, rolling the cuffs up with practiced ease. The faint scent of disinfectant clung to the air as she pushed open the classroom door.
Click
The room was silent.
Rows of empty desks stared back at her like witnesses who had already decided not to speak.
She set her bag down carefully and began her routine.
Wipe.
Sweep.
Align the chairs.
Her movements were slow but efficient—muscle memory doing what her mind refused to process.
The ache in her shoulder flared again.
She hissed softly, pressing her palm against it. The pain bloomed and faded, like a tide she had learned to ride instead of fight.
You're fine, she told herself.
You've been through worse.
The rain tapped against the windows harder now, louder in the quiet room.
Tap-Tap-Tap
Her chest tightened.
Stop it.
She tried to ignore the sound, but memories pressed at the edges of her mind—blurred shapes, heat, the smell of metal and rain. Her breath grew shallow before she even realized it.
"I hate this," she murmured, fingers trembling.
She straightened abruptly, shaking her head.
Focus. Just finish.
—
Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed.
Yura froze.
She wasn't supposed to be disturbed during this shift. Most people avoided this wing entirely after dusk.
The footsteps slowed.
Then stopped.
Her heart began to pound.
Thump-Thump
The door handle turned.
Click
She spun around just as the door opened.
Professor Elyndor stood in the doorway.
His white hair caught the fluorescent light, almost glowing against the dim corridor behind him. He wore his glasses still, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
"Oh—" Yura blurted. "I'm sorry. I—I didn't know anyone would come in."
His gaze swept the room, then returned to her.
"You're assigned to clean this area?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
Her grip tightened on the cloth in her hand.
He nodded once. "I was retrieving a file."
He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him.
The air changed.
Yura didn't know how else to describe it—only that the room felt fuller. As if something ancient had crossed the threshold with him, unseen but heavy.
She swallowed.
"I'll finish quickly," she said, bowing her head slightly.
Elyndor didn't respond right away.
Instead, his eyes moved again—taking in the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her weight favored one side, the faint discoloration at her wrist where the glove didn't fully cover.
Unacceptable.
A word formed sharply in his mind.
He forced it down.
"Take your time," he said evenly. "There is no rush."
Her breath hitched.
That was… strange.
Most people wanted her out of the way. Fast. Invisible.
She nodded again, unsure what to say.
"Yes, Professor."
—
Silence stretched between them as he crossed the room.
Yura resumed cleaning, hyper-aware of his presence. Every movement felt magnified—every breath too loud.
Why is he still here?
She risked a glance.
Elyndor stood near the window, rain streaking the glass beside him. His reflection was faint, distorted by the water—almost unreal.
For a moment, she had the strange thought that he didn't belong to this place at all.
Like he had wandered in from another world and simply decided to stay.
Her heart fluttered.
Get a grip, she scolded herself.
She was not the kind of girl handsome men noticed. Or professors. Or anyone, really.
And yet—
She felt his attention like a warmth at her back.
Not staring.
Not intruding.
Just… aware.
It unsettled her more than cruelty ever had.
—
"Yura."
Her name left his lips quietly.
She startled, nearly dropping the broom.
"Yes?"
"You don't like the rain," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Her throat went dry.
"I—" She hesitated. "No. I don't."
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Understanding? Recognition?
Or something far older.
"The rain remembers things,"he said softly. "Even when people do not."
Her fingers tightened around the broom handle.
"I don't remember anything," she said quickly. "I just… don't like how it feels."
Elyndor turned to face her fully.
For a second—just one—his expression cracked.
Pain.
Rage.
Restraint.
All carefully locked away behind calm eyes.
"That is often how wounds survive," he said.
The words sent a shiver down her spine.
She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt like crying.
Instead, she bowed again. "I should finish up."
He studied her a moment longer.
Then, gently: "Do not push yourself beyond what you can bear."
She almost laughed.
If only he knew.
"Yes, Professor," she whispered.
—
When he finally left, the room felt colder.
The rain continued to fall.
Yura stood still for a long time, her chest aching with something she couldn't name.
Her palm burned faintly.
She stared down at the silver crescent scar, heart pounding.
Why did it hurt more when he was near?
Why did the rain feel louder when he spoke her name?
She didn't have answers.
Only the unsettling certainty—
That something had shifted.
And that whatever had noticed her…
was not going to look away again.
~🫶