The Weight of Her Gaze

The rain wept on, a soft shroud cloaking the shed, its patter a heartbeat against the sagging roof. Raisa sat slumped against the wall, her chained hands limp in her lap, her eyes—green flecked with hazel—fixed on me, piercing through the gray haze. "Why did you leave me?" she'd rasped, her voice a blade honed by silence, cutting deeper than the knife on the floor. I knelt before her, frozen, her words a stone sinking into the well of my guilt.

The air hung thick, heavy with rot and the river's damp breath seeping through the cracked window. Her gaze held me, clouded yet sharp, a mirror reflecting a man I didn't recognize. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice trembling, a thread lost in the storm. "I didn't—I didn't mean to." But the lie tasted bitter, crumbling as it left my lips. I had left her—I'd seen it, felt it: the rain, the door, her cries fading as I ran.

She blinked, slow, her head tilting as if weighing my words. Her lips parted, a breath—or a sigh—slipping out, faint as the wind rattling the boards. "You promised," she said, her voice softer now, frayed at the edges, a memory stitched with pain. Promised? My mind reeled, grasping for it—her laughter by the river, her hand in mine, her voice daring me to believe. "We'll make it," she'd said, and I'd nodded, hadn't I? A vow unspoken, broken by my own hands.

"I tried," I said, my hands reaching for hers, the chain cold between us. Her fingers twitched, a flicker of life, and I clung to it, desperate. "I tried to come back—I didn't know—" But her eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and the shed seemed to shrink, the walls leaning in, the scratches—Don't forget me—whispering her truth.

"You locked me away," she said, each word a drop of rain, steady, unyielding. "You turned the key and walked into the dark." My chest caved, the memory surging—her hands pounding wood, her voice breaking, my shadow retreating through the storm. The necklace burned in my pocket, its heart pendant a weight I couldn't shed. I'd given it to her—by the river, under a sky unmarred by clouds—promising forever. And then I'd buried that promise, buried her.

"No," I choked, shaking my head, tears mingling with the rain on my face. "I didn't want—I was scared—" Scared of what? The blood on my hands? The knife glinting on the floor? Her love, too vast, too fragile, slipping through my grasp? She leaned forward, her chains clinking, her breath brushing my cheek, cold and faint. "You left me to drown," she said, and the river's murmur swelled outside, a chorus to her words.

I saw it then—not memory, but her eyes, her mind opening to me: water rising, dark and swift, seeping through cracks, pooling around her feet. She'd sat, chained, the chair creaking, her hands clawing at the lock, her voice hoarse from screaming my name. The light had dimmed, the air thinned, and still she'd waited—days, hours, an eternity—her faith in me a candle flickering out. "Lukas," she'd whispered, her last breath a plea, and the water had closed over her, silencing her forever.

My knees buckled, a sob tearing free. "I didn't know," I gasped, clutching her hands, her wrists raw beneath the chain. "I didn't mean to—I'd have come back—" But had I? The shed, the knife, the speaker—they wove a story I couldn't unsee, a truth I couldn't outrun. Her gaze softened, a tear—or rain—tracing her cheek, and she murmured, "You forgot."

The speaker crackled, its hum threading through the rain, the voice seeping in: "She never did." My head snapped up, rage flaring, but her eyes held me, pulling me back. "I didn't forget you," I said, my voice raw, breaking. "I gave you this—" I pulled the necklace from my pocket, its heart pendant glinting in the gray light—"I kept it, I found you—" Her fingers brushed it, trembling, and her lips curved, a smile faint as dawn.

"You found me," she said, her voice a whisper now, fading. "But you can't keep me." My heart stopped. Her hand slipped from mine, her eyes drifting shut, and the weight of her leaned heavier, colder. "No—no, Raisa!" I shook her, her head lolling, her breath gone—or never there. I pressed my ear to her chest, searching, pleading—a beat, a sigh, nothing. The rain fell harder, drumming the roof, and the river's song grew, a tide pulling her away.

The speaker buzzed again: "She's slipping, Lukas." I roared, lunging at it, my fist slamming wood, but it hummed on, relentless. I turned back, lifting her, her body light, too light, her chains rattling like bones. "You're not gone," I said, my voice a mantra, my arms cradling her as I stumbled to the door. The mist thickened outside, the river gleaming, and I stepped into it, rain washing us clean—or damning us further.

Her hand hung limp, the chain trailing, and I saw it—a flicker, her fingers curling again, or the wind playing tricks. "Raisa," I breathed, my tears lost to the storm. "Stay." But her eyes stayed closed, her voice silent, and the shed loomed behind us, its scratches a testament to her wait, her words a wound I'd carry beyond the hours.