(First‑Person POV — Crystal)
When dawn came, it found me curled behind an abandoned kiosk at the edge of town, hugging my knees to my chest like they were the only things keeping me from falling apart.
I didn't sleep.
I couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the rock. The river. My mother's hair floating like black seaweed as the current swallowed her.
I could still hear her voice, soft and cracked, begging.
Begging for a life that was already taken.
I pressed my palms against my ears, trying to block it out. It didn't work.
Nothing worked.
People passed by the kiosk, early risers heading to work or school. Some looked at me. Most didn't.
Funny how a child sitting alone in the cold could be invisible.
Maybe I'd always been invisible.
I didn't move until the sun rose completely, staining the sky with dull gold. My clothes were stiff with dried mud. My hair clung to my neck. My body shook even though the morning wasn't cold.
I wasn't sure where to go.
The aunt who should've helped me threw me out like garbage. My father would kill me if I returned home. The police wouldn't believe a kid with no proof and no family backing.
I was alone.
And I needed to stay alive.
Alive long enough to get stronger. Smarter. Dangerous.
I stood, brushing dirt from my legs. My stomach growled violently, reminding me I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I ignored it.
Food could wait.
Survival couldn't.
I walked until I reached the outskirts of the market. People shouted prices, moved crates, arranged vegetables. Life continued, uncaring and loud.
And then I saw her.
A woman selling pancakes over a small griddle. She looked older, tired, but her eyes were kind. Too kind. The kind that made my chest hurt.
She noticed me hovering and smiled softly.
"Come, sweetheart. You hungry?"
I nodded slowly.
She handed me two freshly made pancakes. I tried to refuse—she would ask questions. But hunger won.
I ate in small bites, like someone might yank the food back at any second.
"What happened?" she asked gently. "You look like you've been running from ghosts."
I swallowed hard.
Ghosts. She didn't know how right she was.
I opened my mouth to speak—
Then stopped.
Telling her meant danger.
Telling anyone meant danger.
Trust was a luxury I no longer had.
So I shook my head.
"Just… got lost."
She studied me for a moment, then sighed.
"You children and your stories." She pointed down the street. "Go home. Your mother will be worried."
My throat closed.
My mother wasn't worried.
She was dead.
Thrown into the river like trash.
I walked away before the woman could ask more questions.
At the edge of the road, I stopped.
I needed shelter. A plan. A life that wasn't mine anymore.
And then I remembered…
Miss Olivia.
My mother's closest friend. A woman who lived far from town, unmarried, quiet, solitary.
Mother once said, "If anything ever happens, go to her."
Was this what she meant? Did she know something would happen?
My feet moved faster than my thoughts. I walked. And walked. And walked.
Hours passed.
The sun burned my skin. Sweat dripped down my back. My clothes grew heavier.
But I didn't stop until I reached a small, quiet compound with a green door.
Miss Olivia's house.
My pulse hammered.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder.
Still nothing.
Panic crawled up my throat.
What if she wasn't home? What if she didn't want me? What if she—
The door creaked open.
Miss Olivia stood there, wearing a house robe and holding a broom. Her eyes widened the moment she saw me.
"Crystal?" She dropped the broom. "Oh God—what happened to you?"
Everything I'd been holding in—the strength, the anger, the fear—it cracked. I didn't cry. The tears were gone.
But I whispered,
"He killed her."
Miss Olivia froze.
"Who…?"
"My father," I said. The words tasted like poison. "He killed her. Vivian helped."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
Slowly, Miss Olivia knelt, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Come inside, child."
I stepped in.
The door shut behind me.
For the first time since the night before, I breathed without choking.
But safety was an illusion. A fragile one.
Inside, Miss Olivia sat me down and handed me water.
"Tell me everything," she said softly.
So I did.
Every detail. Every scream. Every memory burned into me like a scar.
When I finished, her hands were trembling.
"I'll report them," she whispered. "I'll go to the police right—"
"No." My voice was steady, too steady for a ten-year-old.
Her eyes widened.
"Crystal—"
"No one will believe me," I repeated. "I'm a child. He's a man with money and connections. Vivian knows people. My aunt is on their side."
Miss Olivia covered her mouth.
Tears filled her eyes.
But not mine.
Mine were dry.
Cold.
Sharp.
She whispered, "What will you do?"
The answer came out of me like it had always been there, waiting.
"I'll live." I stared at the wall, imagining the river swallowing my mother whole. "I'll survive." My fists clenched. "And when I'm older… when I'm strong…"
My voice dropped to a whisper.
"I'll make them all pay."
Miss Olivia didn't try to stop me.
She didn't tell me revenge was wrong. She didn't give me false hope or childish speeches.
She held my shaking hands and said,
"Then you'll stay here. With me. For as long as you need."
And I did.
For months.
She enrolled me in a new school across town. She bought me new clothes. She made me food, braided my hair, and let me sleep in her guest room.
She never tried to "fix" me.
She let me be quiet. Cold. Detached.
She understood.
She didn't know the extent of my darkness, but she felt its edges… and she didn't run.
One night, while she thought I was asleep, I overheard her on the phone whispering:
"She's different now. That child is carrying something heavy. Something sharp. I fear what she might become."
She wasn't wrong.
What she didn't understand was that I wasn't afraid of what I might become.
I was preparing for it.
At ten, I lost everything. At eleven, I learned to observe. At twelve, I practiced controlling my emotions. At thirteen, I studied how people behaved—what they wanted, what they feared. At fourteen, I learned that a smile could be sharper than a knife.
The girl who survived the river night died slowly, year by year.
What replaced her was smarter.
Quieter.
Colder.
Hungrier.
I was becoming exactly what the world made me.
Exactly what I needed to destroy them all.
And though I didn't know it yet, this was just the beginning of my evolution_
For now, I was just a girl sharpening herself into a weapon.
A girl planning her return.
A girl who whispered to the dark before she slept:
"Wait for me. I'm coming."