Chapter 32 #2
Twice.
Again.
But the image only distorts further, the rain overtaking him until there’s nothing left but water and graphite and chaos.
I tear my eyes away from the storm—look back at the girl.
And then my stomach turns.
She’s staring at me now.
The girl in the sketch.
Right at me.
Bright-green eyes—mismatched. Too vivid for pencil. Too real.
She’s not just the artist anymore. She’s part of the storm.
Actually… she is the storm.
A violent wave of nausea crashes through me. I gag and drool, throat tight and dry. I nearly lose my lunch, but I have no lunch to lose.
I reach for the edge of the bed, knuckles white.
Noah is there in an instant.
He drops to his knees, sliding between my jittering thighs. His hands find my legs, then leap up to cradle my face.
Soft palms. Cool skin.
Then his eyes—that piercing, beautiful blue—come into focus.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice calm but urgent. “I’ve got you.”
I try. God, I try.
“It’s her,” I rasp. “Meera… and you.”
Noah nods, solemn. “She was the only one I could see.”
I shake my head. My hands fly to his wrists, gripping them tightly. “You were just a boy, goddamn it.”
“I’m okay,” he whispers, voice soft as his breath ghosts across my lips. His knuckles trail gently down the side of my face. “She taught me how to survive, Alex. She taught me how to hide in the rain.”
His thumb settles against my trembling lips.
“America,” he continues, his voice quieter now, like we’re sharing a secret. “That’s her name. And there’s not much else I can tell you because… like me, she was kidnapped.”
His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face up to meet his.
“She came looking for you, Alex. I’m your brother.”
A chill rips through me.
“I don’t have a brother,” I croak, barely audible.
One one thousand… two… three… four…
“You would have,” he says, a sigh clinging to every word. “If your parents had made it to me.”
His gaze holds steady on mine, unwavering.
“I was waiting for them that day… for you. But someone else showed up instead. I had no way of knowing they weren’t my adoptive family. I was so sure you were on the boat, waiting for me… so I followed—skipped actually—right onto that yacht.”
His lips curl into the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. He sniffles, then continues. “But America… she knew what was happening. But she was young too, Alex. There was nothing she could do. At least not then. But she understood what I wanted most—a brother. That’s why she went looking for you.”
His voice is a whisper now, fragile but certain.
“At the time, I couldn’t escape. But she could. She promised me she’d find you.” His smile deepens. Not from joy, but from somewhere purer. “And she did.”
“But why?” I ask, voice trembling.
“Because she knew I belonged with you,” Noah answers softly. “Because my dreams were always about you. Because I needed you to take me out of the rain. But mostly… because you are my brother, and she wanted me to be happy.”
I stare at him, eyes wide, trying to hold onto any piece of logic that will keep me grounded—but nothing sticks. My brain is scrambling, trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know were missing.
I glance down at my wrist.
Noah sees the confusion, the disbelief, so he keeps going, gently, patiently, like he’s known this would be hard for me all along.
“America loves me, Alex,” he says with certainty. “She’s walked beside me since I was five. She knows every dream I’ve ever had—and every nightmare too.”
His palm is warm against my cheek. I hum without meaning to, leaning into his touch like a reflex.
“All I ever wanted was to stay in my dreams and wait for you to show up again. It was the only place you existed. And she knew that. She knew I was waiting for you.”
He brings his face closer, his lips brushing the corner of mine. His hands stay on my face, grounding me.
Then he starts to tell me everything.
Not in a frantic burst or desperate sobs, just calmly. Almost dreamlike.
He tells me how he was found in a box between Greece and Albania. That he lived in a rundown orphanage in Athens with barely any water and even less food. That he spent years on a yacht that became his prison. Meera’s too. And even more years in the rain.
He tells me that he speaks Greek, English, and French.
And then—more than anything—he tells me about her.
Meera.
The only person who ever showed him love.
The only one who came looking for me.
And, somehow, through it all, he smiles.
Not a bright, sunny smile. No.
A sad small one. Like the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry anymore.
But when he talks about the day he found out an American family wanted to adopt him, his smile grows. He says it like it’s the most magical news he’d ever heard. He’d have parents. A home. A brother. A bed—a real one.
He pauses, then adds with devastating innocence, “I wanted to sleep with you even then.”
And just like that—my heart splits clean in two.
I pull him into my arms, anger long forgotten, and press my mouth to the corner of his impossibly soft lips.
I murmur against him, voice thick with emotion. “You have the best smile, Noah. My parents would have adored you.”
I rub my nose against his, barely breathing. “I can’t believe you’re the boy they were going to adopt. I can’t believe you were her… angel.”
He startles at that, pulling back. His butt hits his heels as he sits up straighter, eyes wide. “Whose angel?”
“Mom’s,” I whisper, my mind flooding with a memory I haven’t visited in decades.
“Why can’t I go?” I whined, sulking as Mom wheeled her suitcase through the living room.
“Because you’re not old enough,” she said patiently, “and you have school. We’ll only be gone for four days.”
“But I don’t want to wait that long!” I stomped after her, full of protest. Grandma’s house was boring, and I didn’t like having to stay there. My sister, Teya, however, didn’t mind. I hated being left behind. “I want to meet my brother at the same time as you.”
Mom stopped, crouching down in front of me. Dad hoisted her luggage and disappeared out the front door.
She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled. “Alex, this little boy is only five years old. He’s never had a family before. I don’t want to overwhelm him by taking you and your sister along. I’m sure he’s already nervous enough.” She cupped my cheek, eyes gentle.
I huffed. “What’s his name?”
She kissed my forehead and stood. “I call him… my angel.”
Tears spring from Noah’s eyes before I can say another word. His shoulders shudder against my thighs, and his hands clutch the fabric of my jeans.
“She… called me her angel?” he whispers, voice cracking wide open.
I thread my fingers into his hair and press his head against my stomach. His tears soak through my shirt.
“Yes,” I say, barely holding back my own. “She did.”
I can’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling. He spent his whole childhood dreaming of walking into the arms of a loving family—my family. And instead, he walked straight into the arms of a monster.
And yet… he still smiles. Still dances. Still loves.
Tiny tremors ripple through his body as he sobs quietly against me. I rise to my feet, and he clings to my legs like a little boy who should have been wrapped in my mother’s arms all those years ago.
I gather him gently in my arms.
He doesn’t resist. He just melts into me, face buried in my neck, breath hitching with each soft, broken sob. I hold him tighter and carry him into the bathroom.
The sound of running water fills the space as I turn on the faucet, warm steam quickly fogging the mirror. I lower the temperature just enough to keep it safe, then move to undress him slowly.
He doesn’t say a word, just lets me move him, undress him, guide him.
When I place him into the tub, his body slips into the water with barely a splash.
He curls inward, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes closed. His face is still wet—not from the bath, but from the tears that haven’t yet stopped falling.
I kneel beside the tub, fingers brushing his damp waves off his forehead, and stay there—quiet, steady—until he’s able to look at me again.
We need to talk.
About Meera.
About how she found me.
About what he wants from me now that she has.
But for now, I focus on him.
“Noah,” I whisper, watching his body slowly relax into the warmth of the water. The steam softens the hard edges of his face. “You’re okay now. She found me. It’s over, beautiful. Your nightmare is over.”
His eyes stay closed. “Not yet,” he says on a breath, the words so quiet they nearly vanish under the sound of water lapping at porcelain.
He reaches for my hand, gently tugging it into the sudsy bath. I let him, let the warmth and water swallow my wrist and watch the tension in his shoulders melt just from touch.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.
I rest my hand against his knee. His skin is impossibly smooth beneath my fingers. He exhales—slow and shaky—as I slide my palm down the length of his leg, to his ankle… then back up again, retracing that path with deliberate softness.
He sighs, long and deep, and tilts his head back, as if he’s surrendering to this peace he’s never had before.
We sit in silence, the sound of water and the soft crackle of soap bubbles the only noise between us. My fingers continue tracing slow lines along his leg.
Then quietly, almost shyly, he asks, “Can I meet my sister?”
The question catches me off guard, but in the best way. I glance at him, touched by the innocence in his voice as he runs his hand lightly over mine.
“Teya?” I smile. “Yes, absolutely.”
I reach over and twist the faucet off. My eyes drift around the space, taking in the design of the tub—wide, luxurious. A faux-wooden ledge wraps around the back edge, giving it a warm, spa-like feel. Above it, a rectangular window lets in the last blush of late afternoon light.
That’s when something shiny catches my eye near the far corner.