The flashback rises unbidden, sharp and vivid, cutting through the present like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.

I'm back in the garden, the one with the old oak that stretched its arms so wide it nearly touched the sky. Laughter spills from my lips, uncontrolled and unstoppable, the kind that leaves your chest aching but full. My little brother, Lior, is climbing higher and higher, his legs too thin for the branches he's trusting with his weight. "Serene!" he shouts, his voice triumphant, fearless. "I'm going to touch the clouds!"

"You'll fall and break your neck," I call back, half-scolding, half-smiling, my hands on my hips. The sun is warm on my face, and the breeze carries the smell of wildflowers.

"You're no fun!" he retorts, but he's grinning, too, his gap-toothed smile as wide as the horizon. Then he jumps—just a little hop down to a lower branch—but it's enough to make my heart stop. He lands with a whoop, and I'm already moving, grabbing his arm before he can try anything else.

"Idiot," I mutter, pulling him down from the tree, but my voice is soft, teasing. He's still laughing, his hair a mess of curls and leaves, and I can't help it—I laugh, too.

"Promise me you'll stop being reckless," I say, ruffling Lior's hair as he squirms away.

 "Only if you promise to stop worrying so much," he shoots back, sticking his tongue out.

"Never."

The word echoes in my mind as the memory shatters, yanked away by the cold, merciless present. My chest tightens, a sharp ache blooming where warmth once lived. That laughter, that sunlight—they feel like relics of a life that belonged to someone else.

I take another step into the darkness, gripping the dagger tighter. The air grows colder, heavier, and the warmth of that day is a distant whisper, too fragile to hold onto. But the ache is a fuel, a fire I can't afford to extinguish.

They'll pay for what they took from me. All of them.

                                                    ....

I stand in the shadows, surrounded by people I barely know. I wish their faces were the faces of my family, but I'm wrong. Their faces are blurry in the dim light, but their eyes are on me, expecting something. They look at me like I'm some hero from a legend—their savior, their weapon. But I'm not their weapon. Not anymore.

My heart beats hard, steady, a constant reminder of what I've chosen, of the path I'm walking. I tighten my grip on the dagger, its cold edge pressing into my skin. It feels solid, real, but there's no comfort in it. It's just a reminder. A reminder of the screams I couldn't stop, the blood I couldn't save, and the faces I'll never see again.

This isn't about grief. Grief won't help me now. It's about justice. About doing what no one else will. I take a breath and shove the memories down, where they can't touch me. Not now.

I step forward, my boots scuffing against the cavern floor. The light from the cave's entrance fades behind me, swallowed by the dark. The cold air sinks into my bones, but I welcome it. It keeps me sharp, focused. They won't escape this time.

The thoughts are always there, clawing at the edges of my mind—anger, pain, the endless need to set things right. But I push them back. I can't let them control me. Not yet. Rage without purpose is as useless as mercy.

I glance back at the cave, now just a shadow in the distance. The time is coming, closer with every heartbeat. And when it does, I'll be ready.