The sky was a dull gray, the kind that made everything look hopeless. Clouds pressed down on the city like a weight no one could shake off.
Inside La Marin, the bakery smelled like sugar and sweat. Anne stood behind the counter, wiping it down for the fifth time. Her shift had ended ten minutes ago, but she didn't dare leave until her boss said so.
"Anne, clean the display tray before you go," said Mrs. Eloise without even glancing her way.
Anne nodded, biting back a sigh. She moved like a ghost—unseen, unheard, unappreciated.
When she was finally done, Mrs. Eloise tossed her a plastic bag. "Here. Bread's expiring tomorrow. Take it home."
Her voice sounded like she was being generous, but Anne knew better.
"Thank you," Anne said, forcing a smile.
No bonuses. No praise. Just leftover bread. The other workers got extra shifts, even rides home sometimes. But Anne? She was invisible. Replaceable.
Anne tugged her thin hoodie tighter. The wind cut through her sleeves like it had something personal against her. In her hand, a plastic bag with nearly expired bread—her "bonus" from La Marin.
Her steps were slow. Not from exhaustion—but from dread. She knew exactly what was waiting for her at home.
That cramped apartment on the second floor used to feel like a sanctuary. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and warm memories. But now? It was a prison with peeling wallpaper.
Uncle Jeff had moved in two years ago, after selling his house to help pay off her father's debts. . Back then, Anne thought he was her savior.
Now, two years later, she knew better.
Now he was just another burden. A drunk. A man who looked at her the wrong way far too often.
As she walked through the alleyway back to her complex, the city's chaos wrapped around her—kids screaming over a plastic soccer ball, moms yelling from windows, the jarring mix of TV drama and loud rock from a street stall.
It was messy. Loud. Alive.
And part of her… missed it.
At the end of the alley, a boy fell off his bike, but got up laughing. Like pain meant nothing.
She smiled faintly.
This used to be her world.
She remembered riding her tiny four-wheel bike right here, wobbling and giggling as her mother cheered from the doorway.
Her mom's laughter used to echo louder than the kids playing now. She was always there—with warm toast and a cup of tea.
Anne's grip on the bread bag tightened.
It wasn't hunger. It was grief.
Even the smell of bread reminded her of what she'd lost.
She stopped walking.
And for a moment, it was like the past pulled her in.
Two years ago.
The hospital room smelled like bleach. Her mother's breathing was shallow. Anne sat beside the bed, holding her frail hand, praying it wouldn't be the last time.
Then the door creaked open. Her father walked in, face pale, eyes empty.
"She's gone."
Anne remembered the way her world cracked in that moment.
The beep of the heart monitor.
The cold fingers in her hand.
Her father's silence—followed weeks later by his suicide.
The debts. The shame. The whispers in the hallway. And finally, Uncle Jeff.
Anne blinked back to the present, her heart sinking. The world had changed since then, and so had she.
She took a deep breath and kept walking.
The moment she opened the door, the stench of beer and cigarettes hit her like a slap.
"Anne! Where's the money?"
Uncle Jeff's voice was rough, slurred. He sat on a peeling chair, shirt half-open, beer bottle in one hand, and a permanent scowl on his face.
Anne dropped two wrinkled fifty-dollar bills into his hand.
"That's it?!" He shouted. "You think this is enough? Marco's interest is climbing, and your daddy's debt ain't shrinking!"
"My pay got cut. A customer ran off without paying," she mumbled.
"I don't care!" he stood up, swaying. "You work two damn jobs and still can't pay the debt your daddy left?! Do something else! There are plenty of men out there who'd—"
"Stop." Her voice cracked.
His eyes narrowed. "What, you think you're too good for that?"
"I'm not a whore."
"You're not even grateful." He threw back another gulp of beer. "I sold my house for you. And this is how you repay me?"
He stepped forward.
Anne backed away.
He reached out. His fingers grazed her arm. Too slow to be innocent. Too familiar to be safe.
"You really think that body of yours ain't good for anything? Let me just—"
His words cut off with a loud slap. Her hand stung. His cheek turned red.
Anne's breath hitched. She stumbled back, eyes wild.
"Touch me again and I'll call the police."
Uncle Jeff just laughed. "Police? What are you gonna say? That your drunk uncle got a little too close? You think they'll believe some broke orphan girl with no one to back her up?"
She didn't answer. She turned, grabbed her tote bag and the stale bread, hands shaking.
"I'm leaving."
"If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back!" he roared.
Anne didn't look back.
The stairs blurred under her steps. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to get out.
The air outside slapped her cheeks. It was mid-autumn, and her hoodie felt like paper against the wind.
She walked. Fast. Far.
That night, Anne stood on the edge of Veldarra Bridge.
Below her, the river was pitch black. Above her, city lights blinked like stars that had forgotten how to shine.
No one saw her. No one cared.
Cars sped past behind her, too fast to notice a girl standing too close to the rail.
She stared at her phone.
One last message to Hana.
Still unread.
"Mom, Dad… I'm tired too."
She stared at the screen. Hana hadn't read it. No one had.
Her fingers slipped off the railing.
Just one step—
"Hey!"
A voice—sharp.
A hand grabbed hers.
A man in a black suit, tall and sharp-featured like a statue. His eyes were cold. Full of judgmental. But something in them flickered—pity? Annoyance? Concern?
"Are you trying to die?" he asked, voice steady.
Anne looked at him.
Tears welled up.
She didn't say a word.
But her silence said everything.