"Daddy, what's that?" Cain asked, his small voice cutting through the still air of the lighthouse. His finger, smudged with fingerprints and a trace of jam, pressed against the weathered glass of the window. Outside, the sky churned—a tapestry of grey and charcoal, its edges frayed by distant flashes of lightning.
Adam looked up from his desk, the old wood groaning beneath the weight of his elbows. He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose before folding them neatly beside a stack of weather reports. The lines etched across his forehead deepened, though a soft smile flickered on his lips.
"That, Cain, is a cumulonimbus cloud," he said, his voice warm but tired. "One of the biggest kinds you'll ever see. They carry a lot of water, and when they're ready, they let it fall all at once. That's when we get the storms."
Cain's eyes widened, dark and curious, as if the clouds themselves whispered secrets only he could hear.
"So… does that mean it's going to rain today?" he asked, voice tinged with awe.
Adam leaned back in his chair, the lighthouse creaking around him. He glanced at the sky as though it held an answer. "Maybe. Let's hope it does. The garden needs the water."
"And the tomatoes!" Cain squealed, bouncing on his heels. "The yummy tomatoes!"
Adam laughed—a soft, weary sound that seemed to fill the small room with light for just a moment. "Yes, the yummy tomatoes," he repeated, shaking his head.
He reached for his sweater, patting the arm of his chair absentmindedly. "Hey, could you grab my sweater from upstairs, bud?"
Cain nodded eagerly. "Yeah, sure!" He darted off, his small feet thudding up the worn steps.
Adam's smile lingered for a heartbeat longer before fading. He sank into his chair, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. He rubbed his temples, the skin beneath his fingers warm and tight. The papers before him swam in and out of focus, a blur of court notices, financial statements, and printed emails. With a frustrated sigh, he slapped the stack back onto the desk, the edges fluttering like frightened birds.
And then, a sharp buzz rattled the air. Adam's phone, vibrating in his pocket, demanded attention. He pulled it out, squinting at the unknown number—a foreign area code blinking on the cracked screen.
He answered, voice taut. "Hello? Who is this?"
A pause. Then a clipped, formal tone. "Hello, is this Adam Raymond?"
"Yes," Adam replied, his voice wary.
"I'm the legal representative for Eve Raymond. I'm calling to inform you that you've been summoned to custody court on November thirtieth. The hearing will determine the custody arrangement for your son, Cain. Do you have any questions regarding this process?"
Adam froze, the words sinking into his chest like stones in water. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
He hung up without a word, the phone slipping from his fingers onto the desk with a dull thud. His hand trembled slightly as he stared at it. The storm outside felt closer now, pressing against the glass, rumbling in his bones.
He tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, heavy with salt and sorrow. His marriage—seven years of it—was crumbling like old plaster. Eve had said he was too obsessed with his job. Too lost in his world of clouds, pressure systems, and forecasts to be a husband. Maybe she was right.
But Cain? Cain was his world. His son loved him. That much, at least, was real. And yet… she wanted to take that from him, too.
"Daddy?"
Cain's voice, soft and unsure, pulled him back. Adam looked up to see his son standing in the doorway, holding out a sweater too big for his small hands. The sleeves dangled like flags in the wind, the fabric worn and stained from years of use.
"Thanks, bud," Adam said, forcing a smile as he took it. He slipped it on, the fabric scratchy against his skin, and stood, stretching his stiff back.
"Hey, Cain—how about a walk?"
Cain's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Really."
With a whoop, Cain bolted for the door, slipping his shoes on haphazardly as Adam followed, grabbing his raincoat from the hook. The old lighthouse groaned as they stepped outside, the wind tugging at their clothes.
They hiked down the rocky path, careful of the slick stones, until they reached the field—lush and damp from the morning's rain, the grass cool beneath their shoes. Adam lay back first, exhaling as he stared up at the swirling sky. Cain plopped down beside him, nestling into his side.
For a while, they lay in silence, the world around them muted except for the distant rumble of thunder and the rhythmic whisper of the breeze.
"Hey, Daddy—look!" Cain pointed upward, grinning. "That one looks like an elephant!"
Adam followed his gaze. "I see it. And that one over there—kind of looks like a rhino, doesn't it?"
Cain giggled, tracing the outlines of clouds with his finger. His hair, dark and damp from the mist in the air, clung to his forehead. Adam reached out and brushed it aside gently.
"Hey, Daddy, it's starting to rain again," Cain said, frowning as droplets kissed his cheeks.
"What's so bad about a little rain?" Adam asked, grinning.
Cain pouted, his nose scrunching up. "Mom says we have to go inside when it rains."
Adam's smile softened. "Not today. Rain is beautiful, Cain. Let's stay right here."
"Really? We can stay?" Cain's eyes sparkled.
"Really."
"I love you, Daddy! You're the best!" Cain wrapped his arms around Adam's chest, his small body warm and solid.
Adam's throat tightened. "I love you too, Cain. Always."
For a long while, they stayed there—father and son, lying in the wet grass, talking about clouds and storms and dreams. But as the rain thickened and the air grew heavy, Adam's thoughts darkened.
"Hey, Cain," he said quietly, sitting up, the weight of the world in his eyes.
"Yeah?" Cain asked, tilting his head.
Adam hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He swallowed hard.
"You know how your mom and I aren't together anymore? But we both love you, right?"
Cain nodded slowly.
"Well… she wants something called full custody. That means you'd live with her—all the time." Adam's voice cracked on the last words.
Cain's face crumpled, confusion and fear flooding his eyes. "W-why would she want that? Don't you want me around, Daddy?"
Adam's heart shattered. He reached for Cain, but the boy recoiled, tears spilling down his cheeks.
"Cain, listen to me. Of course I want you. You're my everything."
But Cain didn't believe him.
He sprang to his feet and bolted, feet pounding the damp earth as he ran toward the cliffside path that led to the docks.
"Cain! Wait!" Adam shouted, scrambling after him, but Cain was already a blur, swallowed by the storm.
Hours passed. The sky darkened, the rain fell harder, and Adam sat hunched over his desk, his heart pounding in his ears. The window rattled under the weight of the wind.
"Dammit," he muttered, shoving his chair back. He threw on his raincoat and rushed outside, the storm slapping him in the face like cold hands.
When he reached the docks, his breath caught in his throat. Cain was there—pushing a small boat into the churning sea, the water frothing like a wild beast.
"Cain! Stop!" Adam roared, sprinting down the pier.
Cain didn't stop. He heaved the oars, determined, sobbing, the wind howling around him.
"Cain! Please!" Adam's voice cracked, raw and desperate. "We'll figure this out, I swear! I love you!"
"Liar!" Cain sobbed, rowing harder, the boat rocking wildly beneath him.
The storm surged, lightning cracking across the sky, the ocean rising in angry swells. A massive wave rose ahead of Cain, looming like a dark mountain.
"Daddy!" Cain screamed, and then the sea swallowed him whole.
"No!" Adam dove into the water, the cold shocking him to the bone. He fought the current, hands clawing through the churning waves.
Cain's small form was lost in the chaos—until Adam's hand closed around him, pulling him up, gasping and coughing.
"You're alive!" Adam choked out, cradling Cain's trembling body.
"Obviously!" Cain croaked, shivering.
"This is no time for sarcasm!" Adam scolded, his voice breaking.
He hauled Cain into the boat, retrieving the drifting oars. But as he stood, a deafening crack split the sky.
The air sizzled—charged, electric. Adam turned, his breath catching in his throat.
A bolt of lightning, blindingly bright, shot down from the heavens—striking the boat dead center.
The last thing Cain saw was his father's face, wide-eyed, mouth open in a silent scream, before the world went dark.
Cain awoke slowly, the edges of the world bleeding into focus like smears of oil on glass. The ceiling above him—stained, yellowed, cracked with age—seemed impossibly far away, as if the bed beneath him had sunk into the earth. His chest ached with every breath, and when he tried to move, a sharp pain lanced through his ribs.
The voices came before the faces. Low murmurs, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the shuffling of cards. He turned his head slightly, wincing, and saw them—three men seated at a small, rickety table by the window, playing poker beneath the pale light of an old desk lamp. They wore white coats, their sleeves rolled up, the edges stained with old coffee and what might have been dried blood. The smell of stale smoke and antiseptic clung to them like a second skin.
"Hey, the kid's waking up!" one of them barked, his chair scraping back with a grating screech. He was broad-shouldered, his face rough and unshaven, eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and irritation.
The other two glanced over, dropping their cards onto the table, their faces shifting into masks of forced concern. They rose in near unison, crowding around Cain's bed like vultures circling a carcass.
"You alright there, champ?" "Can you tell me how you're feeling?" "Any pain in your chest, kiddo?"
Cain barely heard them. Their voices dissolved into the background, muffled, insignificant. His mind, sluggish and cloudy, clawed its way toward a singular thought—a burning, gnawing question that eclipsed all else.
"Where's my dad?" he rasped, his throat raw, the words scraping like sandpaper. He scanned their faces—searching, pleading, demanding—but what he saw chilled him to the bone.
Their smiles faltered. The mask cracked. The doctor with the rough beard and hollow eyes glanced at the one beside him, and for a moment, the silence in the room grew so dense Cain thought it might crush him.
"Well, kid…" the rough-voiced doctor began, rubbing the back of his neck, his tone sliding into a strange, almost rehearsed softness. "I'm sorry, but… your old man didn't make it."
Cain felt as though the floor had been yanked out from under him.
The doctor kept talking, words spilling in a blur. "You just missed the funeral… he passed last night…"
It didn't register. The air felt too thin, his chest too tight, and the world was spinning in slow, sickening circles. Cain sat bolt upright, shoving aside the weak hands that tried to hold him down. The ache in his body roared in protest, but he didn't care. His feet hit the cold floor, and before anyone could stop him, he was running—half-stumbling, half-lurching—down the narrow hallway toward the room at the end.
The door to his father's room creaked as he pushed it open. The light inside was dim, almost reverent. Balloons floated above the bed, drifting lazily in the still air. Their strings trailed down to the headboard, where they bobbed beneath a banner scrawled in sweeping gold letters:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF.
Cain froze, his breath catching in his throat. The bed was neatly made—no sign of struggle, no trace of the man who had once filled the room with the sound of his laughter, his quiet strength. The photographs on the bedside table stared back at him: snapshots of fishing trips, birthdays, small moments that seemed too precious to have ever been real.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath him. His hands trembled as he reached for one of the photographs—a picture of him and his dad at the fair, cotton candy smudging their cheeks. His father's arm wrapped tight around his shoulder, his smile wide and bright.
Cain barely noticed the tears streaking down his face. He opened his mouth to sob, but the sound caught in his throat, strangled by the overwhelming weight of it all.
Then—quiet, muffled voices, seeping through the thin door to the kitchen. His body tensed, breath hitching.
"…did you manage to poison him?" a woman's voice whispered, light and cold as silk. His mother. Eve.
"Yes, we poisoned his IV," replied a man—one of the doctors. "It worked perfectly. He was gone within a few hours. No signs of struggle, no suspicion. You'll have full custody of the boy by morning."
Cain's stomach lurched. His skin went ice cold.
"Lovely," Eve purred. "Bring Cain to me and gather his things. We'll be leaving for my estate immediately."
Cain's world tilted, a slow, sickening twist that set his teeth on edge. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms so deep he felt the sting of blood. Rage burned in his chest, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog of grief like a blade.
He rose from the bed, his movements deliberate, steady. His eyes locked onto the pistol resting on his father's nightstand. He picked it up, the weight of it grounding him, anchoring him in the whirlwind of betrayal and pain.
The voices beyond the door continued, oblivious.
"…he'll be fine, Eve. He's just a kid. He'll forget in time."
Cain pushed open the door, his heart pounding in his ears like a war drum. The kitchen fell silent as they turned to face him—Eve in her pristine black dress, the doctor standing by her side, his hands folded neatly.
"Cain, honey," Eve cooed, her voice dripping with a maternal sweetness that made his skin crawl. "What do you think you're doing?"
Cain's grip tightened on the pistol, his arm trembling only slightly. His voice cracked, but the fury in it was unmistakable. "Don't 'Cain, honey' me. I heard everything. How you poisoned Dad. How you just wanted me for yourself."
Eve's smile faltered, the softness in her gaze twisting into something sharper—calculating, cold. "Sweetheart, you're upset. You're confused. Let's just put the gun down, alright? We can talk about this—"
"THAT'S NOT HOW A WIFE SHOULD ACT!" Cain roared, his voice breaking, tears spilling freely down his cheeks as the gun trembled in his grasp. His finger hovered over the trigger, his whole body taut with grief and fury.
Eve took a slow step forward, her hands raised in a gentle, soothing gesture."Cain, listen to me. I love you, honey. I did this for us. For our future—"
"There will be no us," Cain hissed, his voice a low growl, barely audible over the roar of blood in his ears. "There will be no future."
He pulled the trigger. The sound split the room, deafening and final. Eve's body jerked back, her expression frozen in wide-eyed shock as the bullet tore through her skull. She collapsed to the floor in a graceless heap, her blood pooling beneath her like a dark, spreading halo.
The silence afterward was suffocating. The doctors stared, pale and trembling, their faces slack with horror. The poker cards lay scattered on the floor, forgotten.
Cain stood over her, his chest heaving, the gun still warm in his hand. His breathing came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline searing through him, making the edges of the world sharpen with brutal clarity.
A sob tore free from his throat—half-laughter, half-anguished cry. He fell to his knees beside her, staring at the blood on his hands, the warmth of it sinking into his skin.
Murder is a horrible thing. Cain knew that, had always known it in some vague, abstract way—the kind of knowledge you absorb through warnings and stories. But here, now, in the stillness that followed the gunshot, it felt like something else entirely.
It felt good. It felt right.
It felt like justice.
He sat there in the quiet, the weight of the pistol heavy in his lap, the stench of blood thick in the air. The doctors stood frozen, uncertain, waiting for a cue that would never come.
Cain glanced up, his gaze hollow, cold. "Get out," he said, his voice low and deadly.
They obeyed without hesitation, scurrying from the house like rats from a sinking ship. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Cain alone in the dim light, surrounded by the wreckage of what once was.
The silence pressed in on him, but it no longer felt suffocating. It felt… liberating.
He sat there for a long time, the seconds bleeding into minutes, the minutes into hours. The world outside continued on, unaware of the boy who had just shattered it from the inside out.
Cain stared at the blood drying on his hands, and for the first time in his life, he felt powerful.