✧ Chapter Twenty-Nine ✧
Until Someone Comes
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
The rain began before dawn.
Not the quiet kind that whispered over rooftops—but a storm that sounded like it had been waiting years to be let loose. The path to the old house turned to mud, and mist curled around the fence like ghosts clinging to the past.
Thorne Amer stood at the edge of the property, soaked to the bone, holding a crown of violets.
He had come again.
Every year, on this day, he left something for her. A silent gesture from the shadows. Not just the flower crowns, but hand-carved toys, trinkets, sweets he remembered she liked. A tradition she never seemed to acknowledge—but he never forgot.
Her seventh birthday.
The day she didn't know was hers.
But he did. He always had.
This house—this place—wasn't the home they'd lost in the fire when she was born. That one had vanished in smoke and ash. But this property, another Amer holding in a colder, forgotten region, bore the same bones. Same crooked windows. Same creaking porch. Like fate's cruel echo.
He bent down and placed the crown beneath the gatepost—the same one he used to carry her over when she was too small to climb.
Then turned to leave.
But this time, he paused.
Laughter.
Not hers.
Two children burst from the house, shrieking as they chased each other through puddles. One spotted the crown and snatched it up.
"She got another one! Who keeps leaving her these? Some ghost?"
"Maybe it's her imaginary father!"
"Let's see how fast it wilts."
Their laughter turned cruel. They tore the crown apart, tossing petals into the mud like trash.
Thorne didn't move. He couldn't.
Violets. She loved violets.
But she never wore the crowns. Never once.
Because she never saw them.
They took them from her.
How long?
How many years had he thought he was reaching her—when in truth, she'd been left with nothing?
His hands trembled.
The world tilted.
Earlier that night, just before midnight, the family had packed their carriage in a flurry of umbrellas and excitement.
"The rain will ruin the garden," the matron said, stepping over puddles. "Good thing we'll be far from this place by morning."
"What about the girl?" one of the children asked.
"She'll be fine. There's bread in the pantry. She's old enough to mind herself," the father replied, tugging on his gloves. "Besides, she should be grateful we took her in at all."
Lhady stood quietly by the door as the lanterns faded one by one. She didn't speak. She'd stopped asking questions months ago.
They didn't even say goodbye.
She had tried to be kind. Tried to be useful. But the children never accepted her. They called her extra, like an afterthought. Played pretend games where she was the maid—or worse, the creature in the attic. They broke her things. Hid her food.
And now, they had stolen even this.
Even her birthday.
That morning, before they left, she had found a wrapped parcel on the stoop. Delicate paper. A ribbon the color of twilight.
She had barely touched it before a girl snatched it away.
"Oh—how pretty," the girl cooed. "Must be for me."
"But—" Lhady had started.
"You don't get presents," the girl snapped. "Everyone knows that."
Later that day, Lhady saw her twirling in the dress meant for her. Laughing in it. Parading in front of the mirror.
"It fits me better anyway," she said.
Lhady said nothing. She had learned not to.
But she never forgot the feel of the ribbon that had wrapped it.
Back in the present, Thorne stepped forward—closer than he had in years. Magic pulsed faintly in his chest, stirred by a storm of emotion he'd tried to silence long ago.
He needed to see her.
Just once.
The house stood quiet beneath the rain. No flicker of candlelight. The windows offered only shadows. No family. No celebration.
He waited—hoping for a glimpse through the glass. But no one came.
He moved around to the back, slipping through the old cellar door he once helped seal. Familiar. Wrong.
Each creaking step confirmed it—something was off. The air was musty, cold. Not a sound of life.
The rooms were unkempt. Toys forgotten. The hearth cold. The silence too deep.
Upstairs, her room was locked.
But the magic he shared with her still lingered. A tether.
He followed it—a pulse only someone who loved her like family could sense. Past the stairwell. Past unused guest rooms. Down a forgotten hallway cloaked in dust and peeling paint.
Then he found it.
A corner behind the old wardrobe. Loose floorboards.
He bent down.
Lifted one.
And there she was.
Curled beneath the floorboards. Thin. Asleep. A faint ribbon still tied around her wrist. Her hair tangled. Her skin pale with cold.
She stirred at the light, blinking.
Her eyes met his.
Not with recognition.
But with trust.
"Are you… real?" she asked quietly.
Thorne's throat tightened. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm real."
"You're warm," she murmured. "I had a dream about someone like you."
She didn't know him. Not by name. Not by memory.
But something inside her remembered him all the same.
She reached for him.
And that was all he needed.
He wrapped her gently in his cloak and lifted her from the hollow she had turned into a home.
She didn't resist. Didn't ask where they were going.
She simply rested her head against his shoulder as if she'd been waiting there all along.
As if some part of her had always known—he'd come.
Outside, the storm howled louder.
Thunder cracked as he crossed the threshold.
She held the ribbon tight in her hand.
"Did you give me this?" she asked.
He nodded once. "I did."
"They never let me have things," she whispered. "But I hid this."
"I know," he said. "I should've come sooner."
He walked into the rain, away from the house that had mirrored the old one—but had become a prison instead of a refuge.
He didn't look back.
He wouldn't again.
He could feel her heartbeat against his chest—light, steady, fragile.
She had been so small when he left her here.
He had believed the vision. Thought walking away would protect her.
That love meant absence. That distance meant safety.
But this was what had become of her.
Alone. Used. Hidden. Forgotten.
Never again.
By dawn, the storm began to slow.
The sky cracked open to a pale gray—the first breath of morning breaking through the mist.
She was asleep.
Safe.
Wrapped in warmth.
And this time, he whispered—not for her to hear, but for himself:
"No more shadows. No more crowns left in the dirt. I will never leave you behind again. I'll stay—until someone comes for you. Even if it breaks me. Even if it ends me."