The rain began as a whisper and turned into a roar.
By the time Clara reached the wooden porch of the old house, the sky had collapsed into darkness. Rain poured so heavily it erased the edges of the road, soaked her thin cardigan, and clung to her skin like a second layer she could not shake off. Mud stained the hem of her trousers. Thunder rolled low and distant, as if warning her not to move another step.
"I told you not to go home in weather like this."
The old woman's voice was sharp, but her hand was already gripping Clara's arm, pulling her inside.
"I'll be fine, Grandma Tika," Clara said gently, forcing a smile. "My place isn't far."
"That's what everyone says before they get sick," the woman replied. "You're staying."
Clara opened her mouth to protest. Then closed it.
She had learned long ago when resistance only wasted energy.
The house smelled of old wood and warm ginger. It was modest but solid—nothing fancy, nothing fragile. Little Nurma, her five-year-old student, had already fallen asleep earlier, curled beside a stack of picture books.
"You'll sleep in Nurma's room," Grandma Tika said. "It's the only bed free."
Clara hesitated. "Is that alright?"
"Of course. Nurma sleeps with me when it storms." The woman waved a dismissive hand. "You look exhausted."
Clara nodded, grateful despite the heaviness in her chest. She had taught all day, pushing herself to focus, trying not to think about the messages she had read that morning—messages she wished she could erase.
I didn't mean for you to find out like this.
It was a mistake.
Please understand.
She swallowed, pushed the memory down, and stepped into the small bedroom.
⸻
The bed was narrow but clean. Clara changed into a borrowed long t-shirt and lay down, staring at the ceiling as rain battered the roof. She hugged a pillow to her chest.
Just one night, she told herself. Tomorrow everything will be normal again.
Sleep came slowly, dragged in by exhaustion rather than peace.
⸻
Captain Zayd arrived home past midnight.
His boots were heavy with mud, his shoulders tight from a day that had stretched longer than expected. The storm had turned roads into rivers, delaying his return. He barely registered his mother's scolding as he entered.
"You're soaked. Go to bed," Grandma Tika said.
He nodded.
The house was dark and quiet, rain tapping steadily against the windows. He moved through the rooms by memory, locking doors, switching off lights. When he reached Nurma's room, he paused.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, a small figure lay curled on the bed.
Zayd frowned. Nurma usually slept with her mother during storms. But fatigue dulled his thoughts. He stepped inside, removed his damp jacket, and lay down carefully beside the small body.
Instinctively, he pulled the figure closer.
Warm. Smaller than he remembered. Fragile.
A faint scent reached him—not childish soap, but something softer. Floral.
He frowned, confusion brushing the edges of his mind—but sleep claimed him before questions could form.
His arm tightened protectively as thunder rolled overhead.
⸻
Clara woke to warmth.
Not the warmth of blankets.
The warmth of another body.
Her breath caught instantly.
An arm lay heavy around her waist—solid, unfamiliar, unmistakably adult.
She froze.
Her heart pounded as she turned her head slowly, carefully.
A man lay beside her.
Broad-shouldered. Sharp-jawed. His face calm in sleep, dark hair damp from rain.
Her blood turned cold.
Oh God.
She tried to move.
The arm tightened slightly.
Outside, the storm softened as dawn crept into the room, pale light spilling across the bed.
The man stirred.
His eyes opened.
For one suspended second, they stared at each other.
Then everything shattered.
"What—"
Clara screamed.
She scrambled backward at the same time he pulled away, falling from the bed with a sharp cry.
The door flew open.
"What is happening?" Grandma Tika demanded.
Clara pressed herself against the wall, shaking, face burning with humiliation. The man—Zayd, she realized suddenly—sat rigid on the bed, shock written clearly across his face.
"I—" he began, then stopped.
The silence was suffocating.
Grandma Tika's gaze moved slowly from Clara to her son, then to the disheveled bed.
Her expression shifted.
Not to anger.
To calculation.
⸻
They sat in the living room, separated by distance and shame.
Clara's hands trembled in her lap. She stared at the floor, unable to meet anyone's eyes. The borrowed shirt hung awkwardly on her thin frame, making her feel smaller than she already did.
"I slept in Nurma's room," she said quietly. "Your mother told me to."
"I thought you were Nurma," Zayd replied flatly.
His voice carried no warmth. No apology. Only fact.
Grandma Tika nodded slowly. "People will talk."
Clara looked up sharply. "No one saw—"
"People always know," the old woman said calmly. "Especially when they want to."
Zayd exhaled. "Mother."
"She is a young woman," Grandma Tika continued. "Unmarried. A guest in our house. You are a grown man."
Clara's chest tightened.
"I didn't do anything," she said quickly. "I swear."
Zayd glanced at her—briefly, critically—taking in her plain face, bare skin, thin body. Then he looked away.
"I know," he said. "This is being exaggerated."
The words stung more than accusation.
"There is a solution," Grandma Tika said.
⸻
The word marriage did not echo.
It landed.
"What?" Clara whispered.
"I'm leaving for Gaza in three days," Zayd said sharply. "This is absurd."
"You are thirty-two," his mother replied. "And she is of age."
"I'm twenty," Clara said suddenly, lifting her chin.
Zayd looked at her properly then.
Judgment flickered across his face—and something colder.
"You don't have to worry," he said. "This wouldn't mean anything."
The room went quiet.
Clara's phone vibrated in her pocket.
Bastian.
Her fingers clenched.
She looked at Grandma Tika. Then at Zayd—this rigid, distant man who saw her as nothing more than a complication.
And something inside her hardened.
"...Alright," she said.
Both of them turned toward her.
"I agree."
⸻
Outside, the rain had finally stopped.
But Clara felt certain of one thing—
A far greater storm had only just begun.