Rosalia — POV
Upon hearing Henry's low, cryptic murmurs, it felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water over my head—no, like the entire sky itself collapsed and drenched me in a storm I couldn't escape from.
My lungs tightened. My fingertips went numb. A sharp, freezing chill crept up my spine so fast I almost staggered.
I remembered that cursed day.
That day that never really left me.
It had been an ordinary day—one of those painfully normal ones that blend into each other, where exhaustion becomes more familiar than breathing.
I went to work, returned home half-dead from fatigue, desperate for nothing but silence—just silence.
But what greeted me wasn't silence.
It wasn't warmth.
It wasn't the tender voice of a mother asking about my day, nor any comfort for my worn-out soul.
No.
It was a storm of insults. A raging hurricane of scolding so sharp it sliced deeper than any knife.
I almost cried—not because I wasn't used to it. I was.
