Chapter 4 The Night Of Choices

The bridge loomed ahead of her, its iron rails slick with dew. Sophia tightened her shawl and glanced over her shoulder. The street was empty but the feeling of being watched clung to her like smoke. She told herself it was only nerves. Her father had been cold all evening, listing boarding schools over dinner, reminding her of the recital, warning her not to "ruin the family name."

She reached the midpoint of the bridge and gripped the railing.Her shoes slipped on the damp planks. The air smelled of metal and wet stone. She thought of the recital hall's chandeliers and stiff applause, her father's cold voice, the glittering future he kept promising her but never asked if she wanted. Here by the river she could breathe. Here was the only place she still felt like herself.

"Lucas?" she called softly.

No answer. Only the river moving below, dark and restless

Her heart thudded. She fumbled for the key on its string, a habit now, as if it could protect her. She looked up the path again. Another shape moved between the trees, this one familiar - Lucas's stride, quick and urgent. Relief washed through her.

"Lucas!" she whispered.

Sophia found him leaning against the railing, staring at the water. His shirt was damp from the mist, his hair falling into his eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke.

"You're shivering," he murmured at last. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

She held it closed. "I hate it at home," she whispered. "I hate feeling like a stranger in my own life."

He touched her cheek. "We'll get out of here. Both of us."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn't their first kiss, but tonight it felt different - heavier, desperate. The river kept moving below as they pressed closer, holding on to each other as if the whole world were about to take them apart.

Somewhere downstream a dog barked. Lucas lifted his head, listening. A thin cry floated up from the reeds - a child's voice, sharp with fear.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered. His body went rigid.

"Hear what?" Sophia asked.

He stepped back, scanning the darkness. "Stay here."

He was already cutting through the grass toward the lower bank.

Sophia hesitated. Something was wrong. She followed.

When he reached the reeds he heard voices: a child crying, a man's rough tone. He slipped down the embankment, moving between the reeds. Under a lamp he saw a black car with the rear door open. A man in a leather jacket was pulling a small boy toward it, hand clamped over the child's mouth.

"Hey!" Lucas shouted.

The man swung around, eyes glinting. "Get lost."

Lucas stepped closer. "Let him go."

The man pulled a knife from his pocket. "Last chance, kid."

Lucas's pulse hammered. He thought of Sophia, of promises, of his own childhood. He lunged, grabbing the man's wrist.The man's breath smelled of alcohol. Lucas's arm burned where the knife had grazed him. For a second he saw himself in the boy's place, years ago, no one to help. Rage surged through him; he shoved harder than he meant to. The crack of the man's head against the railing was louder than he expected; it echoed in his skull. The man stumbled backward, struck the railing with a sickening crack and collapsed to the ground.

For a heartbeat Lucas froze. The boy's terrified eyes looked up at him, trusting him, and that trust burned into his chest like a brand. He had no plan, only instinct, and now everything was red and too quiet.

The boy broke free and clung to Lucas's leg, sobbing.

Lucas stared at his hands, the knife lying in the mud, the man not moving. "I didn't mean to," he whispered.

He heard footsteps on the path and turned. Sophia was running toward him, her face pale in the lamp light.

"Lucas!" she gasped. "What happened?"

"He tried to take the boy," Lucas stammered. "He pulled a knife, I-" He looked at the man again. "I think he's dead."

Sirens wailed in the distance. Blue light flickered through the trees.

Sophia grabbed his arm. "We have to go."

"I can't leave him," Lucas whispered. "They won't believe me."

"Then we'll figure it out," she said, though her voice shook.

---

Across town, Isabelle sat at the kitchen table, homework forgotten, staring at the old photograph she had found that afternoon while tidying her mother's dresser. It showed Mary younger, hair unpinned, holding two tiny babies. On the back someone had written "Elena and Isabelle" in faded ink.Isabelle turned the photo over, noticing a faint crease where it had been folded and unfolded many times. In the background she could see a lace curtain she recognised from their old flat. Her mother's smile in the picture was shy, almost secretive. Isabelle had never seen her look like that.

Isabelle traced the names with her finger. She had never heard of an Elena.

Mary entered quietly, drying her hands. "What's that?"

"A picture," Isabelle said without looking up. "You're holding two babies."

Mary's breath caught. "Old times," she said carefully. "Give it here."

"Who's Elena?" Isabelle asked.

"No one you need to worry about." Mary reached for the photo.

Isabelle pulled it back. "You're crying."

Mary wiped at her cheek. "I'm just tired."

Isabelle stood, holding the picture tight. "Why won't you ever tell me the truth about our family?"

Mary turned away. "Some truths hurt more than they help."

Before Isabelle could press further, a neighbour knocked on the door, calling Mary to help with a sick child. Mary left quickly, leaving Isabelle alone with the photo and a rising tide of questions.

---

Back at the bridge, the sirens were louder now, bouncing off the river. Flashlights bobbed down the path. Sophia's mind raced. Her father's lawyers, his reputation, Lucas's rough clothes and cracked knuckles - she could see already how the story would be told.

Lucas knelt, holding the boy, eyes wide and panicked. "They're coming," he said. "They'll take me away."

Sophia's heart slammed against her ribs. She thought of her father's threats, of boarding school, of losing Lucas forever. She stepped closer, her voice low. "If you love me, don't say anything."

"What?" he whispered.

Blue lights spilled onto the bank. The boy whimpered and reached for Sophia's hand, his fingers sticky with tears and mud. She squeezed them automatically, her heart aching at the tremor of his shoulders. For a strange moment she saw herself at that age, frightened and waiting for someone to choose her, and the image almost knocked her breath away.

A police officer shouted, "Hands where we can see them!"

Sophia turned toward the lights, lifting her chin. In that instant she made her choice.