Attacked
Christian pushed the sleek black stroller along the wide, winding path of the park, the air crisp but not biting.
The sun was out... pale and thin, but bright enough to make the grass glint and the bare branches cast long, delicate shadows.
Symphony sat upright in the stroller, bundled in a cream wool coat with a matching knit hat, dark curls escaping around her face.
At four and a half months old, she was growing fast..
. cheeks rounder, eyes brighter, tiny hands constantly reaching for everything: the plush lamb tucked beside her, the dangling toys on the stroller bar, the passing joggers’ bright sneakers.
She babbled nonstop... soft, happy sounds that rose and fell like a private song. Every few minutes she’d kick her legs in excitement, making the stroller rattle, and Christian would slow his pace, glancing down with a small, involuntary smile.
He hadn’t brought a nanny today.
Just him and his daughter.
He stopped near the lake, where ducks glided lazily across the water. He locked the stroller brakes, crouched in front of Symphony, and adjusted her hat where it had slipped sideways.
“Look at that,” he murmured, pointing toward the ducks. “See them? Quack quack.”
Symphony’s eyes widened.
She reached out with both chubby hands, opening and closing them like she could grab the ducks from across the lake.
A delighted squeal escaped her.
Christian laughed... quiet, surprised, the sound rusty from disuse. “Yeah, you like that, huh?”
He lifted her out of the stroller carefully, settling her against his chest so she could see better.
Her small body fit perfectly in the crook of his arm now.
.. bigger than she’d been weeks ago, stronger, more solid.
She leaned forward, staring at the water with intense fascination, tiny mouth open in wonder.
He walked slowly along the path, pointing out things as they passed:
“See that tree? Big one. Tall. Like Daddy, right?”
A squirrel darted across the grass. “Look, fast little guy.”
A jogger ran by with a dog on a leash. “Puppy! Woof woof.”
Symphony cooed and babbled in response, grabbing fistfuls of his coat collar, kicking her legs happily against his side.
Christian pressed his lips to the top of her hat.
“You’re getting so big,” he whispered. “Too fast. Slow down, okay? Let Daddy keep up.”
She turned her head, looking up at him with those big, dark eyes, so much like Melody’s it still stole his breath sometimes.
She reached up and patted his cheek with a tiny, damp hand.
He caught her hand gently, kissed her palm.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “More than anything.”
Symphony smiled... wide, gummy, pure sunshine, and babbled something back, as if answering.
Christian kept walking.
The park was quiet around them... joggers, dog walkers, a few families with strollers of their own, but in that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Father and daughter.
No anger.
No guilt.
No ghosts.
Just a man carrying his little girl through the park, pointing out ducks and squirrels and trees, and trying to be the father she deserved.
×××××××
Melody walked into Kim’s Diner at 6:55 p.m., tying her apron as she slipped behind the counter. The place was already humming... truckers at the far booths, a couple of night-shift nurses grabbing coffee before rounds, the jukebox playing low Johnny Cash.
She moved through the familiar motions: refilling mugs, wiping spills, taking orders for burgers, pancakes, and endless black coffee. The night shift crowd was quieter than mornings... fewer smiles, more exhaustion, but she handled it with the same steady calm she’d always had.
Mr. Kim watched her from the register, nodding once when she caught his eye.
“You’re doing good, kid. Closing’s yours tonight. Maria’s off at 9. I’ll leave you the keys.”
Melody’s stomach twisted slightly.
Closing alone was a big responsibility... locking up, counting the drawer, cleaning the grill, mopping the floors. But she needed the hours. Needed the trust.
“I’ve got it, Mr. Kim,” she said quietly. “I won’t let you down.”
He patted her shoulder, then left at 9:00 sharp, locking the front door behind him but leaving the side entrance open for late stragglers.
Maria waved goodbye from the kitchen, apron slung over her shoulder.
By 11:00 p.m., the diner was nearly empty.
Only three customers remained: a lone trucker nursing coffee at the counter, a young couple sharing fries in the corner booth, and an older man reading a newspaper at booth six.
The bell chimed.
Four men walked in.
They were big... broad shoulders, dark hoodies pulled low, jeans worn at the knees. No masks. No weapons visible. But the way they moved, deliberate, eyes scanning the room, made Melody’s skin crawl.
One of them, the tallest, shaved head, scar across his left eyebrow, looked straight at her.
“Melody,” he said, voice casual, like they were old friends.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
The other three spread out, blocking the front door, the side exit, the hallway to the bathrooms.
The trucker at the counter looked up, frowning.
The couple in the corner froze, fries forgotten.
Scarface stepped to the counter, leaning in. “We’ve got a message for you. From a friend.”
Melody backed up until her hip hit the grill. “I don’t know you. Get out.”
He laughed, low and ugly. “You’ll know us soon enough.”
They moved fast.
One grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward.
Another shoved the counter gate open.
The third knocked over a stack of plates, distracting the remaining customers.
The trucker stood. “Hey, leave her alone!”
Scarface turned, pulling a switchblade from his sleeve. “Sit down, old man.”
The trucker hesitated, then sat.
The young couple scrambled out of the booth, running for the side door, only to find the fourth man blocking it.
Melody fought.
She kicked.
She clawed.
She screamed.
But there were four of them.
One slammed her against the counter, back of her head cracking against the edge. Stars burst behind her eyes.
Another punched her in the stomach, air whooshing out of her lungs.
The third grabbed her hair, short now, but still enough to yank her head back.
Scarface leaned in close.
“You're going to pay for what you destroyed.”
He raised his fist.
The older man at booth six stood suddenly, newspaper falling, and threw himself at Scarface.
“Get off her!”
The trucker lunged too, tackling one of the others.
Chaos.
Punches.
Shouts.
A chair overturned.
The young couple screamed from the side door, now open, they had slipped past the fourth man in the confusion.
Someone yelled for the police.
Scarface shoved Melody hard.
She hit the floor, head cracking against tile, vision swimming.
He kicked her once in the ribs.
Pain exploded white-hot.
Then the fourth man shouted: “Cops! Sirens!”
Scarface cursed. “Let’s go!”
They ran out the side door, into the night.
The older man dropped to his knees beside Melody, hands hovering. “Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”
Melody’s vision blurred, blood in her mouth, ribs screaming with every breath.
She tried to speak. “Symphony…”
Then darkness swallowed her.
Sirens wailed closer because the precinct was only blocks away.
The trucker and the older man stayed with her, applying pressure to the gash on her head, talking to her, keeping her from slipping deeper.
But she was already gone.
Unconscious.
Bleeding badly from the head wound and internal bruising.
The police burst in moments later, guns drawn, then holstered when they saw the scene.
Paramedics followed a while later.
They lifted her onto a stretcher, gentle but fast.
The ambulance doors slammed.
Sirens screamed into the night.
And Melody... broken, bleeding, unconscious, was rushed to the hospital.
×××××××
The private room was quiet except for the steady beep of the monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen through the nasal cannula. Melody lay pale against the white sheets, IV line in her arm, bruises blooming dark across her cheekbone and jaw.
The head wound had been stitched... seven neat sutures hidden under a gauze bandage, and the cracked ribs taped. She was still unconscious, but her breathing had steadied.
Detective Lauren Rodriguez stood at the foot of the bed, notepad open, pen paused. Beside her was Officer Carter, younger, still in uniform, arms crossed tightly.
Dr. Aniston finished checking the chart at the bedside station and turned to them.
Her voice was calm but tired... long shift, heavy case.
“Her blood pressure spiked dangerously high during the assault... likely from shock, pain, and adrenaline overload. We brought it down with medication and fluids. She’s out of immediate danger now.
No internal bleeding we can see on the scans.
The head laceration needed stitches, ribs are cracked but not broken, lots of bruising.
She’ll be sore for weeks, but physically, she’ll recover. ”
Detective Rodriguez nodded, eyes flicking to Melody’s still form. “Any sign of consciousness yet?”
“Not yet,” Dr. Aniston said. “Sedation from the trauma. She may wake in a few hours, maybe longer. When she does, she’ll need quiet. No stress. No questioning right away if you can help it.”
Officer Carter shifted his weight. “We checked missing persons, DMV, utilities, social media. No family listed. No emergency contacts. No one’s reported her missing. She’s got no next of kin we can find.”
Dr. Aniston frowned slightly. “She mentioned a name once when she was semi-conscious in the ambulance. ‘Symphony.’ Kept repeating it. But nothing else.”
Detective Rodriguez closed her notepad with a soft snap.
“We’ll run deeper checks... old addresses, employment history, court records.
Someone has to know her. In the meantime, post a uniform outside the door.
No visitors unless cleared. And if she wakes up talking, I want to be called immediately. ”
Carter nodded. “Got it.”
The detective gave a small, grim nod.
They left the room, door closing softly behind them.
Inside, the monitor beeped on.
Melody lay still.
Unconscious.
But breathing.
And somewhere, deep under the layers of pain and sedation, a single word repeated in her mind like a heartbeat:
Symphony.
She hadn’t given up.
Even in the dark, she never gave up.
×××××××