13/08/2025
The rain hadnāt stopped for three days, and neither had Lenaās headache. She sat at the wobbly kitchen table, staring at the eviction notice, its bold red letters screaming urgency. The diner job barely covered rent, and the hospital bills from her momās last stay kept piling up like dirty dishes in the sink. She was 24, but her bones felt older, weighed down by choices that werenāt hers and a life that kept slipping through her fingers.
Sheād dropped out of college when Mom got sick. Dreams of being a graphic designer faded into late-night shifts serving coffee to truckers who tipped in loose change. Her sketchbook, once alive with color, sat untouched on a shelf, collecting dust next to a cracked photo frame of her and Mom laughing at a county fair. That was before the diagnosis, before the world shrank to hospital rooms and overdue notices.
This morning, her boss had cut her hours. āSlow season,ā heād mumbled, avoiding her eyes. Lena wanted to scream, to throw the greasy apron at his face, but she just nodded, her throat tight. She needed the job, even if it paid less than her pride was worth. Back home, sheād called the landlord, begging for an extension. Heād sighed, āOne week, Lena. Thatās it.ā She hung up, her hands shaking, and the rain kept drumming on the roof, relentless.
She walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Across the street, a neon sign flickered: Pawn Shop. Her eyes drifted to the silver locket on her neckāMomās last gift, engraved with āAlways.ā It was all she had left of her. The thought of selling it twisted her gut, but so did the image of her stuff on the curb, soaked and ruined.
Lena grabbed her coat, the locket heavy against her chest, and stepped into the storm. The rain stung her face, but she kept walking, one foot in front of the other, because stopping wasnāt an option. Not yet.
