The countryside air hit different. It was clean, sharp, like it could cut through the grime of the past. Chickens clucked and scratched in the dirt outside, their lazy chatter mixing with the low hum of a tractor somewhere in the distance. Cows moaned, horses snorted, and the whole place felt alive in a way the city never did. Me and Emilia, we'd made it through that hellish eight-hour ride in the back of some truck—don't ask me how. I don't wanna relive the hunger, the cold, or the way my heart pounded every time I checked if she was still breathing. We survived. That's all that matters. And now, here we were.
I woke up in clean clothes, lying on a real bed for the first time in God knows how long. The sheets smelled like lavender, not like the moldy blankets we'd been curling up in. I turned my head, and there was Emilia, curled up beside me, her little chest rising and falling. For a split second, relief washed over me like a warm wave. She was safe. We were safe. But then I sat up, my head spinning, trying to piece together how the hell we ended up here.
Last thing I remembered was the truck stopping. My eyes were burning, heavy from no sleep, my body screaming for rest. I'd been holding Emilia close, shielding her from the cold, checking her every second to make sure she was still with me. Footsteps crunched toward us in the dark, and I'd thrown myself in front of her, my vision blurring.
"Don't hurt my sister," I'd croaked, my voice barely there, like I was half-dead already. My arms shook as I reached for her, murmuring, "M-my sister…"
Then, a woman's voice—soft, steady—cut through the fog. "You'll be safe, trust me." That's when I blacked out, my body giving up the fight.
Now, here I was, staring at the wooden beams of a ceiling that didn't look like it was about to cave in. A knock on the door snapped me out of it. A woman walked in, dressed in cowboy boots and a plaid shirt, her hair tied back in a loose braid. I tensed, pulling the blanket over Emilia. I'd heard stories about country folk—cowboys, ranchers, all that. Violent types, or so the rumors went. I was just a kid, barely thirteen, and I'd believed every word. Sue me.
She came closer, and I braced myself, ready to fight if I had to. But then she smiled—a warm, heart-melting smile that made those rumors feel like city lies. She reached out, and I flinched, but all she did was pat my head gently, like I was a scared pup. Her eyes scanned my face, checking me over, like she was making sure I wasn't about to break.
"Wake her up," she said, her voice soft but firm. "It's time for breakfast. I know you're both hungry, right?"
Hungry? Shit, I couldn't remember the last time we ate something that wasn't scavenged from a dumpster or a gas station. I nodded, still wary, as she turned and left the room. I leaned over to Emilia, shaking her gently. "Sis, wakey wakey," I said, keeping my voice calm.
No response. My heart skipped a beat. "Baby Emilia, wake up, it's morning."
"I'm not a baby," she mumbled, her voice sleepy and rough, but it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. She cracked her eyes open, blinking at me. "Good morning, big bro."
"Good morning, baby Emilia. Got enough sleep?"
"Yes, big brother…" Then her eyes went wide, panic flashing across her face as she looked around the unfamiliar room.
"Hey, hey, calm down," I said, pulling her into a hug, stroking her hair like I always did when the nightmares came.
"We're okay. We're safe." Her little body trembled against mine, and I held her tighter, my mind flashing back to that house, to the screams, to that monster and the cheating bitch who'd shattered our world. I pushed the thought down. Not now. Not here. This place… it felt different. Like maybe, just maybe, it could be a home.
The door creaked open again, and a kid about my age poked his head in. Shaggy brown hair, freckles across his nose, and a grin that screamed trouble.
"Yo, you two gonna sleep all day or what?" he said, leaning against the frame. "Name's Mathew. Mathew Roberto Vinson. Ma says breakfast's ready, and trust me, you don't wanna miss her pancakes."
I stared at him, sizing him up. He didn't look like a threat, but I'd learned not to trust easy. Still, something about his easy laugh and the way he didn't push too hard made me loosen my grip on Emilia. "We're coming," I said, my voice gruff.
Emilia clung to my hand as we followed Mathew down a hallway that smelled like fresh bread and coffee. The house was warm, cluttered with photos and knickknacks, the kind of place that felt lived-in. Outside, through a big window, I saw fields stretching out, dotted with cows and a couple of horses grazing. A rooster crowed somewhere, and for the first time in months, I felt my shoulders relax.
Mathew chattered the whole way to the kitchen, talking about his horse, Thunder, and how he'd teach me to ride if I didn't fall off first. Emilia giggled—actually giggled—and I shot her a look. She hadn't laughed in weeks. Maybe this place was different. Maybe this Mathew kid wasn't so bad.
In the kitchen, the woman—Laura roberto vinson —set plates piled high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs in front of us. Emilia's eyes went wide, and I felt my stomach growl loud enough to wake the dead.
"Eat up," the woman said, her smile back. "You're safe here. Both of you."
I didn't know it then, but Mathew Roberto Vinson would become my brother—not by blood, but by something stronger. And this place, this slice of countryside with its chickens and tractors and warm beds, would be the first real home we'd had since the world broke us.
But the past doesn't let go easy. And even in this safe haven, I knew the fight wasn't over.
To Be Continued…