Torn Between Destinies-Chapter 14 - Fourteen

I didn’t sleep that night. Not really. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

The train yard groaned and creaked with every passing wind, and somewhere nearby, a dog barked into the night like it sensed something coming. Maybe it sensed me. Maybe it knew what I was becoming. Or losing.

The others snored or stirred in their sleep. Even Mason seemed at peace in a restless world. But I lay awake, my hand pressed to my chest, where the space once claimed by my wolf now felt cold. Hollow.

I shut my eyes, just to rest them. Just to pretend I was somewhere else.

And that’s when the dream came again.

But this time, it wasn’t just sound. It was sight. Color. Pain.

I’m standing in a small kitchen, the air thick with grease and disappointment. A cast-iron skillet sizzles on the stove, and somewhere in the background, a radio plays a broken country song about dead dreams and missing home.

There’s a woman—thin, too thin—with dull brown hair pulled into a tired braid. Her hands move quickly over the stove, flipping something with practiced urgency. She limps slightly when she steps to the counter, her left side tender.

Her name crashes into me like a wave.

Aira.

My mother.

Her eyes are tired. Not just from lack of sleep—but from years of fighting something no one sees. Bruises bloom beneath her skin like rotten fruit. She moves like a woman expecting to be struck. Again.

Behind her, a little girl sits at the corner table, her legs swinging, her chin in her hands. She’s thin, too. Dirt smudges her cheeks. There’s a scar near her temple, old but angry. Her hair is wild and knotted, like no one’s brushed it in days.

Kiani.

Her voice is soft, high-pitched, hopeful.

"Momma, can I have more eggs?"

Aira flinches. Not from the words—but from the voice behind her.

"No one eats until I say so." John’s voice is low, rough like gravel and hate. "The girl’s already a burden. She don’t need to grow any more useless than she already is."

I feel myself tense even in the dream. My fingers curl, my teeth clench.

Aira doesn’t speak. She just nods, keeps her head down.

Kiani lowers her gaze, shoulders shrinking.

John steps into the light. Big. Broad. His hands are calloused, his face unshaven. His eyes carry the poison of control—like he knows he owns everything in the room.

Especially them.

Especially her.

Aira places the skillet on the table and backs away. I can feel her thoughts. She counts the bruises. Not aloud—but like prayers. One for each step she didn’t take away. One for each scream she swallowed. One for every time she said, "Tomorrow."

He eats first. Always. Kiani watches hungrily, but doesn’t dare ask again. Aira watches him too, calculating the danger in his mood. Every move is a negotiation. Every bite could be a trigger.

"You gonna tell me what that girl did yesterday?" John says, mouth full. "Dropped the pail again. Spilled half the milk."

"She’s seven," Aira says gently. "Her hands—"

John slams his hand on the table. The fork bounces. The skillet rattles. Kiani flinches.

"Excuses," he spits. "She’s got your weak blood. No spine."

"She’s just a child," Aira whispers. "She’s just—"

"You raise your voice to me, woman?" His hand is already moving. Fast. I try to scream—try to stop it—but I’m trapped behind the veil of dream. Useless.

The slap is loud. Kiani cries out. Aira stumbles back, one hand to her cheek, eyes glazed with years of held-in pain.

John grunts and walks out. The door slams. Dust trembles from the ceiling.

Aira kneels by Kiani and cups her daughter’s cheeks. Her fingers tremble. She doesn’t cry. Not anymore.

"I’m sorry," she whispers.

Kiani nods like she’s used to it.

They sit in silence for a long time. Until Aira finally murmurs, "I dreamt of her again last night."

"Of who?"

Aira closes her eyes. "Luciana."

I feel myself jolt. Like something sharp went through my chest.

"She’s... far," Aira whispers, more to herself than to her daughter. "But she’s calling."

"You think she’s coming?"

Aira swallows. "She shouldn’t. It’s not safe. But I hope..."

The scene begins to fade. Like smoke slipping through my fingers. Kiani’s small voice echoes last.

"Is she nice?"

Aira smiles through her bruises.

"She was always... strong."

I gasped awake, drenched in sweat. My breath came hard and fast.

She was alive.

My mother was alive.

She was hurt, she was trapped, but she was still herself. Still dreaming of me.

Still hoping.

Tears slid down my cheeks, but they weren’t sad. Not fully. They were the kind of tears that came when you finally saw the stars after too long in the dark.

The others were still asleep. Mason stirred and rolled over, muttering in his sleep.

I turned to the corner of the boxcar and pressed my forehead to the cold metal wall.

"You’re still in there, Mom," I whispered. "I’m coming. I promise."

And this time, no force in Thornridge—or the human world—was going to stop me