The hostel smelled like wet walls and tired lives.

Dampness hung in the air, clinging to the thin curtains and rusted window grills.

The kind of smell that never really left.

It stayed in the bones.

She lay still on the narrow bed.

A thin mattress.
A pillow flattened by too many nights of tears.
A blanket that never felt warm.

The ceiling above her was cracked.

A web of broken lines stretching like scars.

Her eyes followed those cracks every night.

Because sleep was dangerous.

Sleep meant dreams.

And her dreams…

We were never kind.

Rain tapped against the broken glass of the window.

Soft.
Sharp.
Relentless.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

The sound wrapped around her chest like invisible fingers, slowly tightening.

Her hands curled into the edge of the pillow.

Her breath grew shallow.

She tried not to think.

That was the rule.

Don’t think.
Don’t remember.
Don’t feel.

But the rain didn’t listen.

It never asked for permission.

It just fell.

A scream echoed in her head.

Not now.

Not again.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Images flickered behind her lids — flashes of metal, blinding lights, a road that twisted too fast.

A woman’s perfume.

A man’s voice.

A soft laugh.

Things she wasn’t supposed to remember.

Things that hurt too much to touch.

Her heart started racing.

Faster.

Faster.

Her fingers dug into the pillow like they were holding onto the only safe thing left in the world.

The room felt smaller.

Darker.

Colder.

A distant thunder rolled across the sky.

Not loud.

Just heavy.

Like it was sitting inside her chest.

She turned to her side, curling into herself.

A small habit.

A defense mechanism.

If she made herself small enough…

Maybe the memories wouldn’t find her.

Lightning flashed outside.

For a second, the room lit up.

And for that second…

She saw herself.

Reflected faintly in the cracked mirror across the room.

A girl with tired eyes.

Dark circles.

Lips pressed together to hold back screams.

Not broken.

But not whole either.

She reached under her pillow.

Pulled out her sketchbook.

Worn.

Dog-eared.

Protected like a secret.

Her fingers traced the edges like she was greeting an old friend.

She opened a random page.

A dress.

Flowing fabric.

Sharp cuts.

Soft curves.

A design born from pain and hope stitched together.

Her breathing slowed.

Just a little.

Rain kept falling.

The world kept moving.

The hostel slept.

But she stayed awake.

Because if she slept…

She’d hear the crash.

She’d feel the glass.

She’d see the blood.

And she didn’t think she could survive that again.

She whispered into the darkness, barely louder than the rain:

“I’m okay.”

The words felt like lies.

But she said them anyway.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Outside, the rain didn’t care.

It didn’t pause.

It didn’t soften.

Because rain…

Doesn’t ask before falling.