Voices in the Rain’s Embrace

The mist coiled around us, a shroud woven from the river's breath, as I stood outside the shed, Raisa in my arms. Rain fell in silver threads, soaking her hair, her face, her chains glinting faintly in the gray light. Her eyes fluttered open again, green flecked with hazel, clouded yet piercing, and her lips parted, a breath—or a word—hanging between us. "Lukas," she murmured, her voice a whisper carried by the storm, frail but alive.

I tightened my grip, her weight grounding me, the necklace pressed between us like a heartbeat. "Raisa," I said, my voice rough, trembling. "You're here—I've got you." Her gaze wavered, searching mine, and she spoke again, softer, "Why did you come back?"

The question stung, sharp as the wind cutting through the trees. I staggered, sinking to my knees in the wet grass, her body cradled against me. "I had to," I said, my words spilling fast, desperate. "I couldn't leave you—not again. I didn't mean to before—I swear, I didn't—" She tilted her head, her chains clinking, and her voice rose, faint but steady, "Then why did you lock me away?"

My throat closed, the memory flashing—rain, her pleas, the key turning in my hand. "I don't know," I choked, tears blurring her face. "I was scared—something happened, by the river—I saw blood, I ran—" Her eyes darkened, a shadow passing through them. "You saw me fall," she said, her tone flat, a blade dulled by time. "You watched me bleed, and you left me there."

"No!" I shouted, my voice breaking against the rain. "I didn't—I wouldn't hurt you—" But her words sank in, heavy, pulling up the image: her body crumpling, blood pooling, my hands stained as I stumbled back. I shook my head, clutching her tighter. "It's not true—I loved you, Raisa—I still do—"

Her lips curved, a smile faint and bitter. "Love," she echoed, her voice a sigh. "Is that why you gave me this?" Her fingers brushed the necklace, trembling, and I nodded, frantic. "Yes—by the river, under the sun—I promised I'd never leave, I promised forever—" She cut me off, her tone sharpening, "And then you buried me."

The accusation landed, a stone against my chest. I gasped, the rain cold on my face, and stammered, "I didn't—I locked you in, yes, but I didn't bury—I came back, I found you—" She leaned closer, her breath—or the wind—brushing my cheek. "You found a ghost," she said, her voice dropping, a thread snapping. "You left me to drown, Lukas. You locked the door and let the water take me."

"No—no, you're here," I insisted, my hands framing her face, searching those eyes for life, for forgiveness. "I pulled you out—I carried you up—feel this—" I pressed her hand to my chest, my heart pounding beneath it. "I'm real, you're real—we're out—" Her fingers curled, faint but there, and she murmured, "Am I?"

The speaker crackled from the shed, its hum weaving through the rain, the voice spilling out: "She's asking, Lukas. Are you sure?" I flinched, glaring back at the rusted shell, but Raisa's gaze held me, unrelenting. "Answer me," she said, her voice rising, a tide of its own. "Am I alive? Or am I what you made me—your guilt, your shadow?"

I froze, her words a mirror I couldn't face. "You're alive," I said, my voice breaking, a plea to myself. "You spoke—you're speaking now—I heard your breath, I felt your hand—" She tilted her head again, her smile fading. "Did you?" she asked, soft, insistent. "Or did you hear what you wanted—what you needed—to keep running?"

"Stop," I begged, my hands trembling on her shoulders. "Don't say that—I didn't run this time—I climbed down, I unlocked the door—I saved you—" Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—anger, sorrow—flashing through. "Saved me?" she said, her voice sharp now, cutting. "You locked me in that chair, Lukas. You left me to the water, to the dark—and now you carry me like a trophy?"

"No!" I roared, tears streaming, the rain washing them into her hair. "I didn't mean—I didn't know—I'd have died for you—" She leaned in, her face inches from mine, her voice a whisper, cold as the river: "Then why didn't you?" My breath stopped, her gaze a weight I couldn't bear. "Why didn't you stay?" she pressed, relentless. "Why didn't you break the chain when I screamed your name?"

"I couldn't—" I stammered, the shed spinning, the river's murmur swelling. "I was weak—I panicked—I thought I'd fix it—" Her hand slipped from mine, falling limp, and she said, "You thought I'd wait forever." The words sank, final, and her eyes drifted shut, her body sagging heavier in my arms.

"Raisa!" I shook her, panic clawing my throat. "Don't—don't go—talk to me—" The speaker buzzed again, its voice soft, mocking: "She's tired, Lukas. Let her rest." I roared, lunging toward it, but stopped—her hand twitched, brushing my arm, and her eyes opened once more, faint, fading. "Tell me," she whispered, her voice a thread in the wind, "did you ever stop running?"

I sank back, holding her, the rain a chorus around us. "No," I admitted, my voice a broken shard. "But I stopped for you." Her lips curved, a smile or a grimace, and she murmured, "Too late." The river sang on, the mist thickened, and her eyes closed, leaving me with her weight, her words, and the silence I couldn't escape.