BEFORE THE STORM
(One year earlier)
Shadow_vee
My world was already ending—I just didn't know it yet.
I untied my apron slowly, already thinking about the walk home,about my dad and the farm waiting at the edge of town.
The bell above the coffee shop door chimed softly .Evening shift over. Same routine. Same tired smile.
"See you tomorrow, Ora," my manager called.
I nodded, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.
My dad had been looking low for a while. Not sick—just… quieter. Thinner. Like someone slowly stepping out of the light. Whenever I asked, he brushed it off with a joke or a shrug, telling me the farm was just taking more out of him these days.When I confronted him properly, eyes sharp, voice trembling, he smiled at me the way fathers do when they're trying to protect their children from the truth.
"I'm fine, Orabella," he said. "Don't look at me like that." So I believed him.
I always did.
The walk home smelled of roasted corn and wet soil. Our small farm sat at the edge of town, stubborn and tired—just like him.We had lived there my whole life. Just my father and me.
After my mother eloped, the farm became more than land it became shelter. Silence. Survival. We learned how to be enough for each other in ways words never taught us.
I worked extra shifts. He worked the soil until his hands cracked and between us, we made it work.
I thought we had struggled enough when my dad started looking low thinner, quieter I told myself it was just exhaustion. The kind that comes from years of holding things together with willpower alone. Even when I confronted him, he smiled and brushed it off, convincing me he was fine.I wanted to believe that the worst was already behind us.
I didn't know the ground beneath us was about to give way.
"Dad," I called. "You should be resting."
He straightened slowly, wiped his hands on his trousers, and smiled. That same smile.
Then his knees buckled.The crate hit the ground first. He followed.
"Dad!"
I was beside him in seconds, my hands shaking as I tried to lift him. His eyes were open, unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
The world blurred after that.neighbors shouting, someone calling an ambulance, my voice breaking as I begged him to stay awake.
I remember thinking, he said he was okay.
I remember thinking, I believed him.
The machines beside his bed hummed softly, too calm for how loud my heart felt.He looked smaller. Frailer. Like the man who raised me was already halfway gone.
"Dad," I whispered, forcing a smile. "You scared me."
His fingers twitched against the sheet. I reached for his hand, gripping it like I could anchor him to this world.
"You've always been strong," he murmured. His voice was thin, uneven. "Too strong for your own good."
I shook my head. "You're the strong one. You'll be fine. You always are."
He studied my face for a long moment, as though memorizing it. "You've lived too carefully for someone so young."
I tried to smile. "Someone had to."
A faint huff of laughter escaped him. Then his expression grew serious.
"If anyone ever comes to you because of me," he said, voice low, deliberate, "you don't owe them obedience."
My brows knitted together. "Why would anyone come looking for me?"
He didn't answer directly.
"Listen to what they say," he continued, tightening his fingers around mine just slightly, "but decide for yourself. Promise me that."
"I promise," I whispered, though I didn't understand.
His shoulders relaxed, as if that was all he needed.
"I made choices," he said quietly. "Some were hard. Some were necessary. But none of them were meant to cage you."
Tears slipped free. "You never caged me."
A soft smile curved his lips. "Good. Then I did one thing right."
The words confused me. "Dad, you're not making sense."
Two days in the hospital by his side the doctor had smiled before leaving the room.
"He's stable," she said. "We'll keep him under observation."
Stable.
The word settled in my chest like permission to breathe.
My father stirred a few minutes later, his eyes fluttering open. Color had returned faintly to his face, enough to fool me.
"See?" I whispered, forcing a laugh. "I told you. You're not going anywhere."
He looked at me, really looked at me, and smiled."You've always been stubborn," he murmured.
I squeezed his hand. It felt warm. Real. Alive.
That evening she had gotten him milk as he had requested sitting by his bedside telling him stories that always made him laugh the monitor beeped once sharp, wrong.
Then again.
My father's brows drew together, his chest rising too fast, then stopping altogether.
"Dad?" My voice cracked. "Dad, no"
The beeping turned frantic.
Nurses rushed in. Someone pushed me back. Someone else called his name loudly, urgently, like volume could pull him back from wherever he was slipping to.
I stood frozen at the foot of the bed, watching hands press against his chest, watching mouths move, watching hope shatter in real time.
And then silence
One long, unbroken sound.
"No," I whispered.
He had been getting better.
I was sure of it.