Maya sat by the window, keeping watch.
The world outside had become a nightmare, but the monsters out there were not so different from the ones in her past.
As Vell slept, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, Maya's mind drifted back to a time before the towers fell. A time that should have been safe but never was.
She was nine years old again, huddled in her bedroom closet, knees pulled tight against her chest. The shouting downstairs had grown louder.
Something shattered—a plate or maybe a glass—followed by her mother's sharp cry.
"You worthless drunk!" her mother screamed. "The money was for food! For your daughter!"
"Shut up!" her father roared back. "I work all day while you do nothing!"
Maya pressed her hands over her ears, but it did not help. It never did. The closet door had slats that let in thin strips of light, and through them, she could see her small bedroom.
The faded wallpaper. The secondhand bed with its thin blanket. The single stuffed bear missing an eye that she had rescued from a neighbor's trash.
Her stomach growled.
She had not eaten since yesterday's school lunch. There was never enough food in the house, not when her father drank away his paycheck every week.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Maya held her breath, pressing deeper into the corner of the closet. Her bedroom door flew open, crashing against the wall.
"Where are you, girl?" His voice slurred with alcohol. "Come out now!"
She stayed frozen, hoping he would leave.
He did not.
The closet door yanked open, flooding her hiding place with light. Her father stood there, swaying slightly, his face twisted with anger.
"There you are," he growled. "Hiding like a rat."
"I was just playing," she whispered.
"Playing? While your mother and I work ourselves to death?" He grabbed her arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Ungrateful brat."
He dragged her from the closet.
Maya did not resist. Fighting back only made it worse.
"Dad, please," she said. "I am sorry."
"Sorry?" He laughed, a harsh sound with no humor. "You are sorry? For what? For being born? For ruining our lives?"
The words hurt more than any physical blow. She had heard them so many times that part of her had started to believe them.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, her face tight with fear and something else—resentment. Not toward her husband, but toward Maya.
"Leave her alone," her mother said, but her voice lacked conviction. "The neighbors will hear."
That was always her concern. Not that Maya was hurt, but that someone might find out.
Her father released her arm with a shove that sent her stumbling back against the bed.
"Worthless," he muttered. "Both of you."
He stormed out, pushing past her mother. Moments later, the front door slammed, rattling the windows of their small house.
Her mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her eyes moved over Maya with no warmth, no concern.
"Why do you make him angry?" she asked. "You know how he gets."
"I didn't do anything," she said, her voice small.
"You exist," her mother replied flatly. "That is enough."
She left without another word, closing the door behind her.
Maya sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing the red marks on her arm. She did not cry. She had learned long ago that tears changed nothing.
At school the next day, a teacher noticed the bruises. Asked questions. Maya gave the practiced answers. She fell. She was clumsy. The teacher did not believe her but did not push.
No one ever pushed hard enough to break through the wall of lies her parents had built.
Some nights were worse than others. The night her father broke her arm, twisting it behind her back because she had asked for new shoes when her old ones had holes.
The night her mother locked her outside in winter because Maya had spilled milk on the floor. The countless nights she went to bed hungry because there was no food in the house.
She learned to be invisible. To speak only when spoken to. To need nothing. Want nothing. Expect nothing.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments when both parents were asleep or gone, she would look out her window at the stars and wonder if anyone in the world would ever love her.
---
The memory shifted, blurring into another. She was fourteen now, standing in the rain at a cemetery. People in black moved around her like shadows, their faces grim but not sad. No one was sad.
The car crash had killed both her parents instantly. The police said her father's blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit.
No one was surprised.
Maya stood before the twin caskets, rain soaking through her too-large black dress—a donation from a church member who pitied her. She should feel something, she thought. Relief, perhaps. Or anger. But there was only a hollow emptiness inside her.
An older woman approached, her face pinched with distaste. Aunt Meredith, her mother's sister.
"Such a tragedy," the woman said, though her tone suggested otherwise.
Maya said nothing. She had learned long ago that adults did not really want responses from children.
"We need to discuss what happens to you now," she continued. "Your parents left nothing, of course. No savings. No insurance. Just debts."
Still, Maya remained silent.
"None of us are in a position to take in another child," she said. "Times are hard for everyone."
Maya looked up then, understanding slowly dawning. "Where will I go?"
Aunt Meredith's eyes slid away. "There are programs. Foster homes. The social worker will explain everything."
The woman walked away, joining a group of relatives who glanced at Maya with the same mixture of pity and discomfort. They had all known. All of them. Known what happened in that house. And none had ever helped.
The funeral ended.
People drifted away in twos and threes, hurrying to their cars to escape the rain. No one spoke to Maya. No one offered her a ride or a place to stay for the night. She stood alone by the fresh graves, rain washing away tears she had not realized she was crying.
After building up all that courage to ask them for a place to stay, she was rejected, it was true after all, no one wanted her.
"I should just die too," she whispered to herself. "No one would care."
She sank to her knees in the mud, the emptiness inside her growing until it threatened to swallow her whole.
She had nothing. No one. Not even the parents who had never loved her wanted her.
"I want to die," she said again, louder this time. "I want to die!"
"Hey."
The voice startled her. She looked up to see a young man standing nearby, holding an umbrella. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and serious eyes.
She recognized him vaguely—a distant cousin she had met once or twice at family gatherings.
"You are getting soaked," he said, moving closer to hold the umbrella over her.
She stared at him, confused by the simple act of kindness. No one had ever sheltered her from anything before.
"They all left," she said.
"I noticed." His voice was quiet but had an edge of anger. Not at her, she realized, but at the others. "They shouldn't have done that."
"No one wants me," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "They never did."
He crouched down beside her, still holding the umbrella over them both. "What is your name again? I am sorry, I don't remember."
"Maya."
"Maya," he repeated. "I am Vell."
"I know," she said. She had heard her parents mention him—the strange cousin who kept to himself. The one who did not fit in with the rest of the family.
"Do you have somewhere to go, Maya?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Would you like to come with me? Just until things get sorted out."
She stared at him, searching for the lie, the trick, the hidden cruelty that always came eventually. But his eyes held only concern.
"Why?" she asked. "Why would you help me?"
He seemed surprised by the question. "Because you need help. And because no one else is offering."
Such a simple answer. So foreign to everything she had ever known.
"They said I am going to foster care," she said.
His jaw tightened. "Is that what you want?"
No one had ever asked what she wanted before. The question itself was a gift.
"No," she whispered. "I don't want that."
"Then come with me," he said, offering his hand. "I have a small apartment. Nothing fancy. But you will be safe there."
Safe. The word sounded like a fairy tale. Something that happened to other children in other lives.
She hesitated, then placed her small hand in his. His fingers closed gently around hers, and he helped her to her feet.
"Thank you," she said, the words unfamiliar on her tongue.
He nodded, a small smile softening his serious face. "Let's get out of this rain."
As they walked away from the graves, Maya felt something stir inside the emptiness. Not hope—she did not know that feeling yet. But perhaps the possibility of hope.
A tiny spark in the darkness.
She did not know then that this moment would change everything. That this quiet, serious young man would become her whole world. That he would teach her what family should be. That he would show her, day by day, what it meant to be loved.
All she knew was that, for the first time in her life, someone had seen her. Really seen her. And had not turned away.
---
Maya blinked, returning to the present. The store was quiet except for Vell's steady breathing. Outside, the ruined world waited, filled with monsters and danger.
She looked at him, at the bandages covering his wounds—wounds he had received protecting her. Always protecting her.
"I will keep you safe this time," she whispered, though he could not hear. "I promise."
She turned back to the window, watching for threats, determined not to fail him.
The world had ended, but her world had begun years ago in a rainy cemetery when a stranger had offered an umbrella and a home.
Whatever came next, whatever horrors this new reality held, she would face them. For him. For the only person who had ever loved her enough to stay.