Rain had always made the world smaller.
Eight-year-old Ryker Ashenfell didn't like that.
When the storm came, it blurred everything—streetlights, the trees lining the highway, the distant noise of the city. It made the world feel contained, safe inside the warm bubble of the family car. The windshield wipers swished in a steady rhythm, each swipe a small, calming motion against the chaos outside. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and watched the droplets race each other to the bottom. Sometimes he imagined he could reach out and catch one, but they always slipped away.
His mother's hand rested lightly on the back of his seat. "Seatbelt," she reminded gently.
"I'm fine, Mom," Ryker said, adjusting the strap.
His father glanced at him in the rearview mirror and smiled. "Big day tomorrow, huh?"
Ryker nodded. "I can't wait for my birthday cake."
His mother leaned slightly forward. "We'll stop for it in the morning. The chocolate one you like."
"I'll save you a piece," his father added with a small laugh. "If I don't eat it first."
Ryker smiled faintly. The warmth of his family made him feel safe, even as the rain streaked down like silver threads across the windshield. Outside, the night pressed in on all sides—the darkness, the wet road, the endless hum of the storm.
"Road's slick," his father muttered, eyes scanning the dark, winding highway.
Ryker hugged his knees slightly. "Can we slow down?"
His father shook his head with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, buddy. I've got it. Just hold on a little longer."
His mother reached back and squeezed his shoulder. "Ryker, it's okay to be nervous. Storms can feel scary, but we'll be fine."
"I'm not scared," Ryker said quickly, though his stomach felt like ice. "I… I just don't like the rain so much."
His father chuckled softly. "I don't blame you. When I was your age, I hated storms too. But nothing we can't handle together, right?"
Ryker nodded again. He tried to believe it, focusing on the steady motion of the car and the soft sound of his parents' voices. The car smelled faintly of leather and his father's cologne, a comforting mix. The rain pattered on the roof and against the windows, a white noise that usually made him sleepy, but tonight it made his heart pound.
A flash of lightning lit the road ahead. Ryker blinked, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Mom… it's so bright."
"It's okay," she said softly. "Just keep looking straight ahead. It will pass."
He swallowed and nodded, gripping the edge of his seat.
The car rolled along in uneasy silence. Then headlights appeared in the rearview mirror—too bright, too fast.
"Hold on," his father said, tightening his grip on the wheel.
The car behind them swerved. Once. Then corrected. Another swerve.
"Drunk," his father muttered.
His mother gasped. "Let them pass!"
But the road curved sharply. Guardrail on one side, cliff on the other.
The car behind them didn't slow.
Ryker's stomach dropped. "Dad…?"
The impact came like a thunderclap.
Metal screamed. The car lurched violently sideways, spinning.
Glass shattered in every direction.
Ryker slammed against his seatbelt. Pain shot through his leg.
He tried to scream. "Mom!"
Nothing came out.
Another lurch. Another impact. The world tilted and twisted, crushing him into confusion and terror.
"Ryker! Hold on!" his mother shouted, her voice cracking with fear.
"Dad! Dad! Something's happening!" Ryker yelled, though the words barely formed over the roar of rain and metal.
He could smell gasoline. The scent burned his nose. Water streamed into the car, soaking his hair and clothes. He couldn't breathe properly.
The car flipped.
Weightlessness.
Then brutal gravity.
Pain exploded in his leg again. His vision swam.
The car landed jaggedly against a rocky embankment.
Silence.
And then a horrifying clarity: the other vehicle had vanished.
It had left.
His mother's hand was still stretched toward him, but she didn't move.
His father slumped forward. Still.
Ryker tried to speak. "Dad! Mom!"
Nothing came out.
His tiny fists pounded the seatbelt.
Then a weak gasp. "Please… don't leave me…"
Pain radiated up his leg—sharp, unbearable. Blood mingled with rainwater.
Sirens cut through the storm.
Hands reached in—firm, professional. "Child in the back!"
Ryker was lifted, barely conscious. "I—I'm hurt! My leg!" he cried.
The fire in his leg flared again. He screamed fully this time, a sound of terror and confusion that tore through the night.
And then white.
White walls. White sheets.
Everything was too bright.
He tried to move.
His leg ended below the knee.
Bandaged. Gone.
His mind refused to understand.
Children believe in permanence. Parents are permanent. Homes are permanent. Bodies are permanent.
Until they aren't.
A nurse leaned close. "It's okay… stay still."
"I… I can't…" he whispered, tears spilling. "Where… are… Mom? Dad?"
The door opened.
Two adults entered. Not doctors. Social workers.
"Ryker," one said gently. "There was an accident."
The words hung in the sterile room, meaningless yet crushing.
"The other driver—" the woman continued, kneeling beside his bed, "left the scene. They've registered the vehicle to the Vesta Group."
Vesta. The name meant nothing to him yet.
"Your parents…" the woman began softly.
"They're gone," the man finished.
Ryker's chest tightened. "No… no… that's not… it can't be…"
"Shh… it's okay. I know it's hard," the nurse whispered, brushing his hair back. "You're safe now."
"I… I want my mommy… I want my daddy…" he sobbed.
The woman knelt beside him. "I know, sweetheart. I know. But they can't be here. You have to be strong."
Ryker shook his head violently. "I'm not strong! I… I can't do this! I… I can't!"
"Shh… listen to me," the nurse said gently. "You're still here, Ryker. You're going to get through this. One step at a time. One breath at a time."
He buried his face in the pillow, shaking. The storm outside had passed, but the storm inside him was just beginning.
He tried to remember the sound of his mother's laughter, his father's hand on his shoulder, the smell of chocolate cake on his birthday. It all felt impossibly distant, like it belonged to another life.
He shivered under the hospital sheets. The pain in his leg pulsed, sharp and relentless, but it wasn't just the injury. It was everything else—the emptiness, the fear, the knowledge that no one would come back to him.
Outside, the storm softened. The rain slowed to a drizzle.
Inside Ryker Ashenfell, something far heavier had begun.
Something that would take years to shape, harden, and finally drive him to do the unthinkable.
Seventeen years later, the silence of that night would speak louder than any word he could ever utter.