The rain didn't fall in drops tonight.
It pounded—hard, relentless, echoing against the metal roof of the bus as it pulled into Berlin Central Station.
For a moment, Andrea Johnson watched the blurry city lights smear across the window like ghosts refusing to stay still.
Berlin. Two years later.
She exhaled once, sharp and cold, and grabbed her single backpack—the only piece of her old life she still carried.
The Motel
The storm followed her down the cracked pavement as she made her way to the nearest roadside motel. A cheap neon sign buzzed overhead, flickering like it was fighting to stay alive.
She booked a room without saying more than five words.The receptionist tried to make small talk.
Andrea didn't.
In the dim yellow light of the motel hallway, her reflection stared back from a broken mirror—black clothes soaked through, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes hollow and unreadable. The girl her parents remembered didn't exist anymore.
She never would again.
The Parents
Hours later, Andrea stood in the doorway of her childhood home. Her mother gasped first.
"Andrea? Is that—oh my god." Warm arms wrapped around her immediately, desperate, trembling.
Andrea didn't hug back.
Her father joined, voice thick with emotion. "We thought we lost you. Why didn't you call? You could've stayed here—we could take care of you—"
"I don't need taking care of," Andrea said flatly.
Her mother cupped her face, trying to search for the daughter she knew.All she found was a stranger.
"Andrea… what happened to you?"
A shadow crossed her expression—dark, unreadable, almost dangerous.
"Life," she answered simply.
They begged her to stay the night. Begged her to let them help.
But Andrea stepped back already halfway down the hall. "I'll come by sometime. I just… can't be here."
"Andrea—"
"Goodnight."
She left them standing in the doorway, the warm yellow light behind them, her silhouette swallowed by the storm as she walked away.
The Bus Station
Thunder rumbled overhead as she passed the bus station on her way back. Three men under the shelter noticed her immediately.
"Hey, sweetheart!"
"Where you going dressed like that?"
"Come here, pretty girl!"
She stopped. Her jaw clenched.
Wrong day. Wrong girl. Wrong lifetime.
One stepped closer, smirking. "I said come here—"
Andrea moved before he finished the sentence.
A kick to the knee—he dropped. A punch to the throat — another folded. The last tried grabbing her arm—she twisted his wrist, slammed him into the metal post, and he crumpled with a groan.
Silence. Rain. Three bodies on the pavement.
Her breath didn't even hitch. The skills she tried to bury were still there… sharper than ever.
She stepped over them and kept walking.
The Car
A car rolled slowly beside her, tires slicing through puddles. The window lowered.
A warm voice—older, deeper than she remembered—called out:
"Hey, miss. Do you need a ride? It's cold out there."
Andrea turned her head.
For a second, her heart stopped.
There he was—Hands on the steering wheel, dark hair damp, familiar eyes widening in disbelief.
Tom. Two years older. Two years changed.
But still unmistakably him.
She froze, rain dripping from her lashes, breath caught in her throat.
He looked at her like she was a ghost he never expected to see again.
"…Andrea?" he whispered.
And for the first time all night, something cracked inside her.