The world above looked almost insulted by its own peace. Evening light filtered through the trees in soft, golden bands. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the water. Across the lake, the laughter of teenagers drifted on the wind. Ordinary life was continuing, oblivious to the fact that my death had been intended as a small, forgettable transaction.

I sat there for a long time, soaked, hair plastered to my skull, dress ruined. My heart beat steadily. I was not frightened. I was not broken. Something inside me had cracked wide open, yes, but it wasn’t fear that poured out. It was clarity.

For years, I had known they were circling me like hungry sharks, waiting for a drop of blood. For years, I had told myself to forgive, to stay quiet, to love them past their flaws. I had let them use my kindness as a staircase to climb over me. But today, they showed me the truth with their own hands, and I would not unsee it.

I stood up. It was a slow, painful process, like unfolding a rusted chair. I began the long walk home, water dripping from me like the last remnants of my old life. They thought I had drowned. They thought the lake had taken me for good.

But I was still here. And for the first time in decades, I was no longer afraid of what came next.

Chapter 2: The Silent House