The rain fell in endless sheets against the window of the small, cramped apartment on Eidolon Avenue. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes and unspoken decades. Lucky, her eighty years etched deeply onto her face, sat hunched in her worn armchair, the phantom whispers of a past that refused to die echoing in the quiet.

Her eyes, rheumy and distant, watched the storm outside, but her mind was elsewhere, adrift on a sea of regret. A cigarette, forgotten, burned low between her fingers, its ash growing long. The ghosts, her constant companions, stirred in the corners, their sightless eyes fixed on her.

"Just go away," she rasped, the words thin and weary, directed at the unseen tormentors who clawed at the edges of her sanity. But they pressed closer, their accusations a relentless torrent, reminding her of every brutal choice, every life taken. The room grew cold, then hot, the familiar chill of dread mingling with the searing heat of memory.

Then, a gentle knock. The deadbolt slid open, and a breath of fresh air, laden with the scent of rain, filled the room. Her salvation had arrived.