It was late one night. Raining. Cold. I was five.

My parents said everything was going to be fine.

Parents lie.

I remember the sound of the rain slapping against the windows like fingers tapping a warning. I was wrapped in a thin blanket, sitting in the backseat of our old station wagon, clutching my stuffed rabbit—ears half-chewed, one eye missing.

We were parked at the edge of a forest, headlights off, engine silent. My dad kept glancing at the rearview mirror. My mum kept shushing him.

I didn’t understand much at the time—just that something had gone wrong. There had been shouting before we left. A knock at the door. A broken vase. Mum told me not to look back when we ran to the car. I didn’t. But I remember the smell of smoke.

That night changed everything. We never went back to the house. Never spoke of it again. I grew up with a dozen different last names and a hundred unanswered questions.

But one thing I learned early:

Rain hides footsteps. Cold hides fear.

And sometimes, the biggest monsters live inside the people who are supposed to protect you.