The storm that night was not just weather; it was a foreshadowing. Rain lashed against the windows of the old Victorian estate on the outskirts of the city, sounding like handfuls of gravel thrown by an angry god. Inside, the house was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock that had measured time for three generations.

Evelyn, seventy years old, sat in her reading chair. She was a woman of small stature, with silver hair tied back in a sensible bun and hands that, despite their age, were steady as she held her herbal tea. To the outside world, she was just a retiree, a quiet widow who tended to her roses and donated anonymously to the local library.

The heavy oak front door didn’t ring; it thudded. A weak, desperate sound, barely audible over the wind.

Evelyn set her tea down. Her instincts, honed by forty years of navigating shark-filled corporate waters before her retirement, flared instantly. She didn’t walk; she moved with a quickness that belied her age.

She pulled the heavy door open. The wind screamed into the hallway, bringing with it a figure soaked to the bone, shivering violently.

It was Sarah. Her daughter.“Mom…” Sarah whispered. The word was broken, a shard of glass.

Evelyn pulled her inside and slammed the door against the night. As the light of the foyer hit Sarah’s face, Evelyn felt a cold, murderous rage solidify in her chest.

Sarah’s lip was split. A dark, angry bruise was already blooming across her cheekbone, purpling the skin. She was wearing only a thin raincoat over her pajamas, barefoot and bleeding.

Sarah collapsed into her mother’s arms, her legs giving way.

“He… he hit me, Mom,” Sarah sobbed, her voice muffled against Evelyn’s wool cardigan. “Mark… he came home drunk. He was celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Evelyn asked, her voice terrifyingly calm as she stroked her daughter’s wet hair.