Thirteen Years Beneath the Rain

The river stretched before me, its dark surface still now, a mirror shattered by my own trembling hands. Raisa was gone—or had slipped from my grasp—her laughter fading into the mist, her form dissolving like rain into the earth. I knelt at the water's edge, the necklace clutched tight, its heart pendant glinting faintly, a shard of light in the gray dawn. Her voice lingered—Don't let go—a whisper threading through the silence, pulling me back to the 13 years she'd counted, the years I'd buried.

The rain fell softer, a delicate hymn against the grass, and I closed my eyes, her words echoing: 13 years, Lukas. I counted every one. My breath caught, the number a weight sinking into me—13 steps, 13 promises, 13 years apart—and the river answered, its murmur swelling, a tide of memory rising to meet me. "Tell me," I whispered, my voice raw, a plea to her, to the water. "Tell me what I missed—what I left you to."

A sound—soft, distant—drifted from the mist, her laughter again, bright and unbroken, pulling me under. I saw her—younger, alive—standing by the riverbank, sunlight glinting on her hair, her green-hazel eyes dancing as she tossed a stone, its ripples spreading wide. "You're terrible at this," she said, her voice warm, teasing, as I fumbled my own throw, the stone sinking fast. I laughed, my chest light, and said, "You're too good—I can't keep up."

She turned, her smile wide, and stepped closer, her hand brushing mine, the necklace glinting at her throat. "You don't have to," she murmured, her voice softening, a promise in her touch. "Just stay." I nodded, my heart full, and said, "Forever." The sun burned bright, the river sang, and for a moment, we were whole—before the rain, before the blood, before the key turned.

The memory shifted, the light dimming, rain lashing the bank, her laughter turning to a scream. "Lukas!" she cried, her hands gripping my arms, her eyes wide with fear—or anger—as I pushed her into the shed, the wooden door slamming shut. "Don't do this!" she shouted, her voice breaking, but I turned the key, my hands trembling, blood—or water—staining them red. "I'll come back," I said, my voice hollow, a lie I didn't believe, and ran, the storm swallowing her cries, 13 years beginning with that step.

I gasped, my eyes snapping open, the river cold against my knees, the necklace burning in my hand. "Raisa," I choked, tears falling into the water, rippling her absence. "I didn't know—I didn't mean—" Her voice rose, faint but sharp, from the mist, cutting through my guilt. "You didn't mean?" she said, her tone steady, a blade honed by time. "You locked me away, Lukas—you left me to count the years alone."

I staggered to my feet, searching the mist, her form flickering—there, by the river's edge, her hair tangling in the wind, her eyes piercing me. "I was a coward," I said, my voice rising, raw, "I ran from you—from myself—but I'm here now, Raisa. Tell me what those years were—tell me what I did." She stepped closer, her chains gone, her presence solid—or shadow—and murmured, "You want to know? Look at me—really look."

I stared, her face clear—too clear—her eyes alive with pain, her scar a map of endurance. "The first year," she said, her voice low, steady, "I screamed your name until my throat bled. The second, I carved it into the wood—Don't forget me—hoping you'd hear." My chest caved, the shed's scratches flashing in my mind, and I whispered, "I didn't hear—I didn't know—"

"The third," she continued, her tone softening, "I stopped screaming—I waited, counting the rain, the days, believing you'd come." Tears streamed down my face, rain washing them into the river, and I said, "I should've—I would've—" She cut me off, her voice rising, fierce, "The thirteenth, Lukas—I stopped believing. The water rose, the dark took me, and you were gone."

I fell to my knees, the necklace slipping from my hand, sinking into the grass. "No," I choked, my voice breaking, "I didn't—I'm here now—I'll make it right—" She knelt before me, her hand brushing my cheek, warm, then cold, then warm again, and whispered, "Right? You can't erase 13 years, Lukas. But you can carry them."

"Carry them?" I said, my voice trembling, searching her gaze. "With you?" She smiled, faint, real, and murmured, "If I'm here—if I'm still me—then yes. But you—you're still afraid." I shook my head, fierce, gripping her hand, her touch flickering, solid, then shadow. "Not of you," I said, my voice steadying, "of losing you—of those years I can't take back."

Her laughter rose, soft, haunting, and she said, "Then hold me—hold the years, the rain, the promise." I pulled her close, her body warm against mine—or the wind's illusion—and whispered, "I will—forever this time." The river surged, its mirror empty, and her voice echoed, "Forever?" as the mist swallowed us, her form wavering, her hand in mine—or gone, leaving me trembling in the rain.