Chapter 1 The Breaking Point

The rain poured relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves were mourning. I stood there, soaked to the bone, my suitcase trembling in my hand. Behind me, the faint outline of the house I once called home blurred in the storm. I didn't dare look back — not because of pride, but because I was afraid I would crumble.

They said I would never make it.

They said I was too weak, too foolish to dream beyond the narrow streets of our forgotten town.

And maybe they were right.

But somewhere deep inside, buried under the fear and the hurt, was a spark — a stubborn little ember refusing to die. I clenched the handle of my suitcase tighter and took the first step into the unknown.

This was no longer just a journey to a new city.

It was a journey to prove something far greater:

That I was more than their doubts, more than their pity, more than even my own fear.

I would prove it — to them, to the world, and most of all, to myself.

The city loomed before me like a living, breathing giant. Lights flickered in every color imaginable; the streets buzzed with a rhythm I had never heard before — a restless energy that made my heart pound both in excitement and terror.

I clutched the scrap of paper in my pocket: an address hastily written by my only friend who had left years before me. "Come find me when you're ready," he'd said.

Was I ready?

The truth was, I didn't know. But it was too late to turn back now.

As I wove through the throngs of strangers, my suitcase bumping clumsily against my legs, I realized just how small I was here. No one spared me a glance. No one cared where I had come from, or why my shoes were muddy, or why my eyes kept darting nervously from one corner to another.

At first, the loneliness was a punch to the gut.

But slowly — almost imperceptibly — it began to feel freeing.

For the first time in my life, no one had already decided who I was supposed to be.

I found the address after what felt like hours. It was a narrow building squeezed between two towering glass giants, the sign above the door barely hanging by its hinges: "Riverside Boarding House."

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The smell of damp wood and old memories greeted me. A woman at the front desk looked up, her hair tied in a messy bun, her face weathered but kind.

"You lost, kid?" she asked, her voice rough like sandpaper.

I shook my head. "I'm...I'm here to stay."

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and slid a creaky ledger toward me. "Name?"

I hesitated. It felt like this was some kind of final test — like the person I wrote down here would be the person I became.

"Arden," I said. My voice barely above a whisper. "Arden Blake."

She scribbled it down without a second thought. To her, I was just another name in a long list.

But to me, it was the beginning of everything.

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