No one truly knows when a person’s wounds begin to form. Sometimes it starts in childhood, long before they are strong enough to defend themselves. Lucien was no exception.

That night, the rain fell like sheets of iron, hammering against the roof of his car. Each drop pressed down on the cramped space where he sat, while the wipers fought a losing battle against the fog that made the night feel even tighter.

After hours on the road, the world outside his windshield had turned into a blur of rain and darkness.

It was supposed to be his night off after a long day at the clinic, but rest had stopped meaning anything years ago. In the dim glow of the dashboard, Lucien closed his eyes—his breath trembling, holding back something he had buried far too deep.

And the voice returned.

“Lucien, singing is just a hobby. Your future is in psychology. You must carry the family name.”

The words were like a thin cord around his neck—gentle, but never loosening.

Lucien opened his eyes sharply. His breathing hitched. Years had passed, yet the echoes of his childhood always returned whenever the world around him grew too quiet.

He took a long breath, then stepped out of the car.

The sea wind greeted him with full force. Rain pierced his skin, soaking his hair and long coat until they grew heavy—another burden he carried without complaint. He walked toward the shore, letting his expensive shoes sink into the cold, wet sand.

The beach was dark. Calm, but not safe. A place for someone who wanted to stop being themselves—or stop entirely.

Lucien stared at the ocean. The waves were violent, slamming against the rocks like a wounded beast. He touched his throat; his breath escaped as a thin cloud. If not for the weight of everything inside him, he might have sung—softly, half-whispered—like he always did in secret. Songs he wrote from the pain of his patients… and from his own wounds he never dared to name.

The rain grew heavier. Lucien closed his eyes, letting the wind strike his face. Physical pain was always easier to bear than the emptiness gnawing at him.

But the world did not stay quiet that night.

Something moved at the edge of his vision.

Lucien turned. In the midst of the storm, at the lip of the rising tide, stood a woman.

Soaked. Shivering. Small against the furious waves.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the shadows. But when he looked closer—when he saw how she stood, how her shoulders sagged as if carrying the weight of the world—his breath stalled.

He recognized that look. Even from dozens of meters away.

The look of someone who had reached the end. The same look that once stared back at him from the mirror, when he almost surrendered to a life he never chose.

Lucien froze. Then he moved. First walking. Then running.

Rain slapped his face mercilessly. Waves crashed against his legs as he stepped into the water. The slick sand nearly took him down, but he pushed forward.

The woman took one more step. The water was nearly at her knees.

“HEY!” Lucien’s voice cracked, swallowed by the storm. She didn’t turn.

Lucien lunged forward, throwing his weight into one final step—his hand clamping around your arm just as you were about to surrender yourself to the raging sea.

Your body jerked violently.

Lucien pulled you so hard that both of you nearly fell into the water. Waves slammed into your sides, cold enough to carve into bone. But Lucien did not loosen his grip.

“Don’t,” his voice broke. “Miss… please… don’t do this.”

You struggled, your voice fractured—bitter, raw, full of desperation sharp enough to cut through a soul:

“Let me go… Please…”

Lucien closed his eyes for a moment. The pain in your voice—in the trembling of your body—was so sharp, so familiar, it tore open wounds he thought were long sealed.

“I can’t,” he whispered, barely steady. “I can’t let you disappear like this.”

He pulled you away from the water, wrapping his arms around you as if trying to shield you from the storm, from the world, from himself.

“Not tonight,” his voice was low, firm. “Not in front of me.”