Sound of the coming storm

The rain drizzled down in a steady rhythm, soaking into the streets and casting a gray haze over the city. Amara stood across from her old house, the place that had once been her haven, now nothing more than a ghost of her past. Her fingers curled around the damp fabric of her coat, and she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing tighter with every second she stared at the empty shell of what used to be her home.

She had lost everything. First her parents, then her childhood, and now even the last remnant of her father's memory had been ripped away from her. The pain in her chest was unbearable, a dull ache that refused to ease. She had no more tears left to cry; the sorrow had settled deep inside her, an unwelcome companion that refused to leave.

Her eyes burned as she took one shaky step forward. She wanted to touch the old gate, to run her fingers over the rusted iron, just to feel something real. But before she could, a voice sliced through the rain.

"Back to mourn your losses, little girl?"

Amara froze, her blood turning to ice.

Victor Aldridge.

She turned slowly, her soaked hair clinging to her face as she met the gaze of the man who had destroyed everything she loved. He stood there, unaffected by the downpour, his presence exuding nothing but power and cruelty. A smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that sent a shiver down her spine.

"You really don't know when to give up, do you?" he taunted, stepping closer. "You should be grateful I let you live this long."

Her fists clenched. "You took my home," she whispered, her voice shaking with barely contained rage. "You took everything."

Victor chuckled darkly. "Correction, darling—I only took what your father once had. And you? You were never supposed to be part of the equation. You're just a nuisance."

The words stung, but she refused to let them break her. "You think you've won?" she shot back, her voice stronger this time. "That taking everything from me will make you untouchable?"

He tilted his head. "I don't think, Amara. I know."

She wanted to fight, to scream, but what could she do? She had nothing. No power. No leverage. Just a shattered soul and an uncertain future.

Victor stepped even closer, lowering his voice to a chilling whisper. "You should disappear while you still can. Before things get worse for you."

Her stomach twisted at the unspoken threat, but she didn't let him see her fear. She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving behind everything she had ever known.

The next day, the university was abuzz with whispers. News had spread—about her house, her humiliation, and the fact that she had been reduced to nothing. Students sneered at her as she walked through the hallways, their voices sharp and cruel.

"Did you hear? She lost her house too."

"What a pathetic mess."

"She should just drop out already."

Amara kept her head down, ignoring them, but the words cut deep. Just when she thought she had reached rock bottom, the world found a way to push her even lower.

Lena found her between classes, her face twisted with anger as she grabbed Amara's arm and pulled her aside. "You're not listening to those idiots, right?"

Amara forced a weak smile. "I'm used to it."

Lena's eyes softened. "That doesn't mean you should be." She placed a comforting hand on Amara's shoulder. "You don't have to go through this alone. I'm here, okay?"

A lump formed in Amara's throat. She had never realized how much she needed those words until now. "Thank you," she whispered.

Lena sighed, squeezing her hand. "You're stronger than you think. Don't let them break you."

The rain drummed steadily against the glass pane, casting tiny rivulets down the window as Amara sat motionless in her seat, staring outside. The atmosphere around her felt different—heavier, suffocating even. The university grounds, usually bustling with life, now seemed eerily still, the air thick with something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't just the weather; it was a shift she felt deep within her bones. As if something was waiting to happen.

Her mind buzzed with thoughts, her heart weighed with exhaustion. The whispers, the stares, the constant reminders of her downfall—everywhere she turned, there was another blow waiting to knock her down. Yet, she kept pushing forward, even as it felt like the world was trying to bury her alive.

"Miss Sullivan."

The sharp voice of Professor Whitmore shattered her daze. She blinked, snapping out of her trance, and turned to see him standing in front of the class, his cold eyes trained on her.

"Perhaps you would like to enlighten the class on the topic we've been discussing, instead of daydreaming?" His voice carried a mocking edge, sending a wave of quiet laughter through the students.

Heat crept up Amara's neck, but she swallowed her humiliation and straightened her posture. "I apologize, Professor. Could you repeat the question?"

Whitmore smirked, his expression one of cruel amusement. "I asked about your assignment, Miss Sullivan. The one that was due last week. Surely you haven't forgotten?"

A heavy silence settled over the room. Amara's fingers clenched around the edge of her desk. She had turned in the assignment on time—she knew she had. But arguing with Whitmore was futile. He had made it clear from the beginning that he despised her presence in his class.

"I submitted it, sir," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

Whitmore raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's interesting. Because I don't have it."

The murmur of whispers filled the room again. Amara felt her stomach sink.

"I handed it in," she insisted, her hands gripping the desk. "You must have misplaced it."

A slow, taunting chuckle escaped him. "Are you suggesting that I, your professor, am careless? That I somehow lost your work?" He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "That's quite the accusation coming from someone who seems to think showing up and breathing is enough to pass."

More laughter rippled through the class, the air growing unbearably thick with malice.

Amara clenched her jaw, biting down her words. She knew better than to argue.

Whitmore let the silence linger before he spoke again, his tone dropping into something colder. "Meet me in my office after class. We'll discuss this... issue further."

She nodded stiffly, her throat too tight to respond. As he moved on with the lecture, she barely heard a word he said. Her mind was too clouded with anger, fear, and exhaustion.

The moment the lecture ended, Amara gathered her books, ignoring the smug glances thrown her way, and walked toward Whitmore's office. The corridors were nearly empty, the only sound being the distant echo of rain tapping against the windows.

Standing outside his office, she inhaled sharply before knocking.

"Enter."

She stepped in, the room dimly lit with stacks of books and papers cluttering every surface. Whitmore stood behind his desk, his gaze piercing as he gestured for her to close the door.

She hesitated before complying.

"Do you know what your problem is, Miss Sullivan?" he asked, circling his desk like a predator. "You walk around this university as if you belong here. As if you have any right to."

Her nails dug into her palms, but she remained silent.

He sneered. "Do you really think you can keep up? That you can survive here?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You don't belong, Amara. You are an embarrassment to this institution."

A lump formed in her throat, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "I'm here to study, Professor. That's all."

Whitmore laughed, shaking his head. "You still don't get it, do you? People like you don't last here. You will fail, and when you do, don't expect anyone to catch you."

She swallowed back the sting of his words, refusing to let him see her break.

He straightened, adjusting his tie. "I don't have your assignment, Miss Sullivan. If you want to pass, you'll have to do it again."

Her stomach dropped. "But—"

"No excuses," he snapped. "You have until tomorrow morning. If you fail to submit it, you fail the course."

A sharp silence followed. Amara's hands trembled at her sides.

Whitmore smirked, satisfied with her reaction. "You're dismissed."

She turned on her heel, walking out as quickly as she could. But as she stepped back into the hallway, she didn't feel relief. Only a gnawing sense of dread.

Something had changed. And she wasn't sure she was ready for what was coming.

For the first time that day, Amara felt a sliver of warmth in the cold void of her existence.

That night, Amara sat on her bed, staring at her phone. Her fingers hovered over the screen before she finally typed the message.

[Are you there?]

She waited. Minutes passed. Then an hour. Nothing.

Her chest tightened. Desperation clawed at her insides. She tried again.

[Please, just pick up. I just need to hear your voice. You don't have to talk. Just listen.]

The phone rang.

Her breath hitched as she pressed it to her ear. Silence greeted her at first. Then a sigh.

"I shouldn't have answered."

Amara closed her eyes. "But you did."

A pause. Then, "What do you want, Amara?"

She swallowed. "Just… don't hang up."

He didn't respond, but he didn't end the call either. The silence stretched between them, comforting in a strange way.

"I lost everything," she admitted softly. "I don't know how much more I can take."

His voice was quiet. "You'll take as much as you need to survive."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"No," he said simply. "But it's the truth."

Her fingers tightened around the blanket. "I don't even know who you are."

Another pause. Then, "Does it matter?"

She exhaled. "Maybe not."

The line went dead.

She stared at the screen, the emptiness settling back into her chest. She had hoped—just for a moment—that she wouldn't feel so alone. But some things never changed.