I hear the rain before I feel it. A soft tapping against the broken roof, whispering through the holes in the walls. The drops slip down, tracing along the dirty floor like veins. She hums while she knits, the quiet song barely louder than the rain, but I hear it. I hear every note. I don't know why, but I close my eyes.
I try to pretend, just for a moment, that this is real. That I belong here. That I am him.
"Elías," she says.
The name fits too well. Because I have no other.
I look up at her. Her hands never stop moving, the needles clicking together in a steady rhythm. She hasn't asked why I left again today, why I return with dust on my boots and dirt under my nails. She doesn't ask because she already knows.
Her son was a boy who wanted revenge. And now, I am Elías. A boy who has nothing else.
I think I smile. Just a little. Not because I'm happy—happiness is something distant, unreachable. But because it almost feels like I have a place. Because when she looks at me, she sees me. Not the ghost of a boy lost to war. Not the hollow thing that I've become. Just me. And for now, I can be Elías.
She notices. "That's the first time you've smiled."
I don't know what to say to that. Maybe she's right.
I sit down, watching the fire flicker weakly in the corner of the room. It barely warms the space, but I don't mind. Cold is something I've grown used to.
She hands me a piece of bread. It's old, stale at the edges, but I take it without complaint. Im just thankful to shew on something. We sit in silence, chewing, listening to the storm outside.
It's peaceful. Too peaceful.
A part of me wants to believe it will last. That I will wake up tomorrow to the same soft humming, the same clicking of needles. That I will sit in this chair, in this home she's made out of broken things, and let her believe she has her son back.
But I know better.
War doesn't let things stay soft. It takes, and it takes, and it doesn't stop until there's nothing left.
And I hear it before she does.
Footsteps.
I stop chewing. My body stiffens. She doesn't notice—not yet. She's still humming, still knitting, still living in the lie we've built together.
Then a knock. A fist against the broken door.
The person knocking was doing it on purpose as the door was already open.
As if she she knows who it is she looks up.
She looks at me.
"Elías…"
I move before she can. I grab her wrist—too tight, too desperate—and I shake my head. She doesn't understand, not fully, but she trusts me. So she stays seated. So she listens.
The door bursts open.
Soldiers.
Three of them, their boots tracking mud and blood across the floor. Their rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces carved from cruelty. They don't look at me. They look at her.
The oldest one—the one in charge—smiles.
"Still singing?" he asks.
She doesn't answer.
I don't breathe.
He steps forward, running a gloved hand along the edge of the table, over the pile of unfinished knitting. His fingers curl around the half-made scarf and he pulls. The yarn unravels, stitches coming undone, hours of work dissolving into nothing.
She flinches, but she doesn't look away.
The other soldier—younger, crueler, hungrier—laughs. "Did you think he was coming back?"
I don't move.
I can't move.
The first soldier grabs a chair, flips it around, and sits down in front of her. He leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his other hand tapping against his rifle.
"Elías." He says the name like a joke. Like he knows something I don't. His eyes flick to me, amused. "So you finally came home."
I want to kill him.
I want to kill him.
But my hands stay where they are, clenched into fists in my lap.
"Where were you?" he asks. His tone is mockingly soft, like a father scolding a child. "You left your poor mother all alone. Four years of waiting, just for you to come crawling back?"
He knows.
He knows.
And so does she.
Because her hand moves, slowly, carefully, and finds mine.
She squeezes. So gently.
And I know what she's saying. Don't. Don't give them a reason.
But they already have one.
The soldier stands, stretching. "No matter. He's here now." He turns to the others. "Let's make sure he never leaves again."
The younger soldier grins. "What should we take first? The hands?"
I see red.
I stand.
But before I can move, before I can even think, she does something I don't expect.
She laughs.
It's not a real laugh—it's small, sharp, a warning. She stands, between me and them, and lifts her chin.
"You killed my husband," she says. "You stole my son and now that I have him back you want to destroy him. You are devils!"
She spits at their feet.
I know what's coming.
I move before I even decide to, reaching for her, pulling, begging her to step back.
But it's too late.
The gun fires.
The sound shatters the air, rips through the space between us, and her body jerks. A hole. Just below her ribs.
She sways.
Her mouth opens, closes.
She looks at me.
And then she falls.
The soldiers laugh. They laugh.
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I watch as the blood spreads, as the rain seeps through the broken roof and mixes with it. The puddle grows, dark and endless. The scarf—the one she was making for Elías—sits beside her, half-finished. Unraveling. Coming apart.
They leave.
Because they want me to live with this. Because they want me to break.
The door swings shut behind them.
And then, there is nothing.
Nothing but the storm.
Nothing but her.
Nothing but me.
I kneel beside her, pressing my hands against the wound, but it's useless. The blood is everywhere. She is everywhere.
"Elías," she whispers.
She still believes it. Even now. Even in her final breath.
And I let her.
I take her hand, the way she took mine.
"I'm here," I whisper back.
She smiles.
She smiles.
And then she's gone.
Just like that.
Like all the others.
Like everything I've ever had.
But something is different this time. Something is burning.
I look at my hands. They are shaking.
Not from grief. Not from sorrow.
But from something else.
Something dark.
Something sharp.
Something that wants to hurt.
I stare at the blood. At the empty chair. At the scarf still lying in the dirt, unfinished.
And I know.
I know.
I finally know what that feeling was.
I know that this is the last time I will let them take something from me.
The last time I will sit and watch.
I have nothing left.
Except for one thing.
Vengeance.