Then—a window.
Long and thin, barely a meter wide. I reach for it, stand on my tiptoes, peering through.
Ocean waves lick at the wall where my feet rest, not quite reaching the glass. I pull myself higher, fingers scraping at the slick surface until I find a small, inverted handle.
If I open this, I’m free.
But also—fucked.
I don’t know how to swim.
The dock could be miles away for all I know.
For someone who’s spent his life at sea, you’d think I’d be at one with the water. But I’m not. Water frightens me—it always has.
Tears spill hot and heavy—streaming over my trembling lips, falling from my chin.
I reach for the handle anyway, whispering to the storm that lives inside me. If I die, at least it’ll be in the rain. I drag the window down, and a wave slaps me in the face—a cold, angry kiss. I spit out the salt. I need the rain. I need it to hide my tears. If they see my tears, they’ll see me.
Rain and tears… rain and tears… rain and tears…
I chant it like a prayer. Like a spell. Until the words blur into waves. And the storm swallows me whole as I squeeze through the window.
I step onto the ledge. The metal bites cold against my bare feet, slick with ocean spray. Waves slam into my shins, their rhythm pounding like a second heartbeat.
Turning around, I pull the window closed behind me and press myself flat against the hull. My fingers cling to the slick surface, searching for balance, for something solid to hold on to. Carefully, I shuffle sideways along the narrow ridge, the sea hissing below, rain beginning to spill from the dark sky above. Each drop hits like needles—sharp, cold, cleansing.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in the salt, the storm, the freedom.
Then—finally, fucking finally?—
I move… into the rain.
“Noah!”I shout. “Noah, open your eyes, sweetheart.”
His head shakes—hard—almost violently, like he’s trying to expel a ghost. I gently pry his trembling hands away from his face.
“Please—don’t make me leave the rain,” he cries, voice cracked and desperate.
I pull him up from the chair and into my arms. His whole body quivers, fragile and tight, heart pounding against my chest like a war drum.
“There’s no rain, baby,” I murmur, smoothing his damp hair back. You made it. You’re out of the rain, Noah. It’s gone.”
I press his face to my chest and hold him close, trying to steady him with the rhythm of my own breath. “Tranquilo, ya estás a seguro,” I whisper into his hair. “You’re safe now.”
His arms fall limp at his sides, and he gulps in air like he’s drowning—like he’s still underwater.
“Elijah,” he gasps.
I take his hands, wrap them around my waist, and anchor him there. “You’re out of the storm, Noah. There’s no more rain. Not here.”
Slowly—hesitantly—he lifts his head from my chest. His eyes meet mine, framed by wet lashes that cling like frost to glass.
“It was her Bible,” he mouths, voice barely there, lips shivering.
I brush the sweat from his brow, thumb lingering at his temple.
“What was?”
