The crash echoed like gunfire.
Glass shattered across the worn wooden floor, splintering into glittering shards under the dim light, scattering in chaotic patterns. Every jagged fragment mirrored the chaos of the house, of the lives trapped inside it.
The stench hit first—stale alcohol, sweat, and years of neglect. It clung to the walls, the peeling wallpaper, the curtains, saturating the air so deeply that it seemed impossible to breathe.
Liora whimpered, pressing herself against her mother's leg. Three years old, fragile, trembling. Tiny fingers dug into fabric, her nails scratching the soft cotton of Selara's dress. She had learned early that movement, sound, even a small gasp could draw attention—the wrong attention.
"WHY IS THIS PLACE SUCH A MESS?!"
Riven's—no, the body he now inhabited—staggered forward. Bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, voice slurred, movements wild and unsteady. One wrong gesture could shatter everything. The anger in him had been years in the making, a lifetime of violent habit, rage unspent.
And then… the world broke.
A horn. Screeching brakes. A flash of blinding light. Pain. The sudden, crushing weight of a truck. Life ending violently, abruptly, unfairly.
Riven's consciousness splintered.
Then air.
He gasped violently, limbs twitching as if rejecting the new life forced upon them. Every muscle screamed, every nerve cried out. Yet, instinctively, he breathed, looked around—and froze.
Selara. Pale. Eyes wide, wary, heart pounding.
Liora. Tiny, shivering, clutching her mother. Innocent, terrified, watching.
Riven's chest tightened. His throat burned. He wanted to speak, to apologize, to explain—but words were dangerous. Words could break what little was left.
So he didn't.
Instead, he moved carefully.
Every step deliberate. The broken glass was swept into piles. Bottles stacked neatly against walls. Surfaces wiped clean. Nothing abrupt, nothing loud, nothing to frighten them again.
The smell of alcohol lingered, faint but persistent, like a shadow he couldn't shake. And yet… it was cleaner than it had been in years.
Days passed.
Riven woke before dawn, trembling, body aching. Hot water was his ritual—scalding, burning, gagging—but necessary. Every sip fought the old cravings, every swallow reminded him: control, survival, restraint.
Selara watched silently from the doorway, mind spinning, heart exhausted. Thoughts came, dark and heavy: Maybe it's too much. Maybe I can't… Maybe it would be easier to disappear.
But then she felt the small weight of Liora's hand curling around hers in sleep. Her breath caught. No. She couldn't. Not because of him. Because of her daughter. That anchor kept her upright, kept her breathing, kept her holding on.
Riven felt something he didn't understand. A pull toward Selara, sharp, unexplainable. Protective, instinctive, familiar—but he couldn't name it. He didn't know why it existed, only that it gnawed at his chest, an itch he could not scratch.
Every motion, every breath, was torture.
The house creaked under the weight of fear. Every shadow seemed alive, every sound amplified. Liora flinched at the slightest movement. Selara's muscles tensed constantly, watching him, waiting.
And yet… there was no violence. No shouting. No raised hands.
Just him. Trembling. Shaking. Fighting cravings with every fiber of his body.
The darkness pressed in.
Riven's stomach twisted. His head throbbed. Memories—unbidden, unexplainable—flashed, fragments he could not place. An instinct to protect, a sense of familiarity with Selara that made his chest ache, but with no clarity. He didn't understand it. Readers didn't either.
The night dragged on.
Selara retreated to her room, locking the door. She sank to the floor, knees to chest, silent tears dripping. The weight of hopelessness pressed against her chest like a stone. Thoughts of ending it whispered like cold wind: Maybe I don't have to try anymore…
A tiny hand stirred in sleep. Liora.
Selara's breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "I can't. Not her. Not now."
The dawn came slowly.
Riven drank more hot water, shivering, gagging, but each sip a lifeline. He whispered apologies to the dark, to the house, to Selara, to Liora—knowing they would never hear them.
Every nerve screamed. Every moment was torture.
He did not know if he could survive this.
He did not know if they would survive him.
And the memories—those tiny, unexplainable instincts tugging at him—remained mysteries.
But one thing was certain:
This was only the beginning.
The man who had destroyed a family… was alive again.
And the house, the wife, the child… they were all holding their breath.