AVALON'S BURDEN
Ava's pov
Ava Collins had never known quiet nights. Even as a child, the sounds of her father's arguments over late bills, the ticking of overdue notices, and her mother's whispered prayers had filled the apartment like a constant drumbeat. Now, at twenty-four, that rhythm hadn't changed—it had only grown heavier, louder, more suffocating.
The small apartment on the Upper East Side of New York wasn't much. Its walls were thin, paint peeling at the corners, carpet fraying in the spots her father's pacing had worn it bare. But it was home. It was all she had. And home, for Ava, meant responsibility—responsibility she carried like armor, even though it weighed her down.
Her mother, a nurse at a public hospital, worked double shifts, often disappearing before dawn and returning past midnight. Her father, a small business owner who had once dreamed of building a life beyond late nights and debt notices, now struggled to keep the family afloat after a series of unfortunate investments. And Ethan, her younger brother, had been born with a fragile heart that required constant medication and regular checkups.
Ava herself juggled three jobs, sometimes four. She worked as a receptionist at a boutique marketing firm, tutored high school students in the evenings, and waited tables at a nearby café on weekends. Some nights, her legs ached so much that she swore she'd lose the ability to walk. Her fingers were rough and calloused from endless typing, writing, and scrubbing. Still, she smiled, always, because someone needed to. Someone had to keep the family together.
The kitchen table was cluttered with bills, spreadsheets, and scattered notes. Ethan sat next to her, assembling a Lego city in vivid primary colors, oblivious to the storm hovering over their home.
"Mom said I need to save the city from debt monsters," he said, grinning.
Ava forced a laugh, smoothing her hair. "Then you better start early, superhero."
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother:
Don't forget your tutoring session tonight. Can't miss it, Ava. We need every dollar.
Ava exhaled, shoulders stiffening. Sleep was optional. Rest was optional. But failure… failure was forbidden.
She remembered the first time she'd held Ethan in the hospital, tiny and frail, his chest barely rising, her hands shaking as she prayed he'd make it through the night. That fear had never left her. Every late bill, every mounting debt, every failing scholarship, was a reminder of the fragility of the life she was tasked to protect.
Her gaze fell to a pile of papers: medical bills, rent notices, credit card statements, student loans. The numbers were impossible. Her father's investments had gone under; some creditors were growing impatient. Her mother's overtime was barely keeping them afloat.
She ran her fingers over the stack, mentally calculating. If she took another tutoring shift, worked the café an extra evening, she might cover one small payment—but it would never be enough. There was always another emergency waiting, a new debt piling on top of the last.
A knock on the door startled her. She opened it to find the mail: envelopes, bills, letters from lawyers. They landed like stones in her hands, heavier than the paper could ever weigh.
She sank into the chair, running her hands through her hair, thinking back on her own dreams. College, a life outside the suffocating walls of responsibility, somewhere quiet and free, somewhere she could breathe without calculating every penny—those were luxuries she had abandoned long ago.
Ava's mind wandered to her father, hunched over the kitchen table earlier that week, staring at the ledger with hollow eyes. He had been a proud man, a man who believed in his ability to provide. She remembered the rage in his voice when another creditor had called, and the shame on his face when he couldn't pay. For her, his pride had always been a silent burden. Now, it felt like a weight pressing on her own chest.
Her thoughts shifted to Ethan, who had been practicing his "superhero moves" in the living room, oblivious to the tension that surrounded them. She smiled, despite herself. He had no idea how fragile the world was—or maybe, how much she would fight to protect it.
Ava's phone buzzed again—a notification from a scholarship board. Rejected. She had applied to a private grant that could have covered the next semester entirely. Rejection. Another dream deferred.
She dropped onto the couch, exhausted, her body and mind refusing to cooperate. The apartment was silent for a moment, save for Ethan's soft humming as he built his Lego city. She thought about all the compromises she had made, all the nights she had cried quietly in her room so as not to wake anyone, all the sacrifices she had endured.
Her reflection in the window caught her eye: tired eyes, pale skin, shoulders slumped from years of carrying more than her fair share. She whispered to herself, almost like a mantra:
"There has to be a way. There has to be a way to save them all."
The desperation in her chest felt alive, twisting, suffocating. She had come to understand one undeniable truth: when survival demanded it, you would do things you never thought possible. You would cross lines you swore you'd never touch. You would risk your own heart if it meant keeping the people you loved safe.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden realization that she had to make a decision soon. If she didn't find a way, the consequences would not be hers alone—they would spill onto her family, onto Ethan, onto the life she had spent every day trying to preserve.
And somewhere, deep down, she knew that desperation could lead her into dangerous territory. Choices made in desperation rarely ended well.
She didn't yet know who would offer her a lifeline, or what price she would have to pay to grasp it. But she did know one thing: the coming days would change everything. And she might not come back the same person she was before.