ROSES, SHADOWS & THORNS

The night it happened began like any other. A rare, serene evening in the Alvero household. Ana's parents, Lucia and Mateo, had put aside their busy schedules to spend time with their only daughter.

The living room hummed with warmth: the soft flicker of candlelight from her mother's favorite antique lantern, the faint melody of a classical guitar playing from an old speaker, and the hearty laughter of a family enjoying the simplest of moments together.

Ana, ten years of age and full of life, giggled as her father teased her about the uneven shapes of the cookies she was attempting to bake. Her mother, always elegant and loving, playfully scolded him.

“Don't mind daddy, they're perfect.” Lucia said, brushing a strand of Ana's dark hair behind her ear. “And we're lucky she didn't burn the house down this time.”

“Hey! It was only the drapes, and I said I was sorry!” Ana pouted, though a grin tugged at her lips.

For once, they weren't rushing anywhere, weren't distracted by work or errands. They were simply together.

Then came the knock at the door, and silence fell.

It was sharp and deliberate, a sound that sliced through the laughter. Mateo's smile faded as he glanced at the clock. Who would be visiting this late? He rose, his footsteps slow but steady as he approached the door.

“Stay here,” he murmured to Lucia.

From the kitchen, Ana strained to listen. She heard the door creak open, followed by low voices. The words were muffled, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air.

“Mateo, what's going on?” Lucia called out, moving toward the living room.

Before he could answer, the conversation at the door escalated. Voices rose, furniture scraped against the floor, and then—

A gunshot, and then another.

The sound was deafening, reverberating through the house. Ana froze, the wooden spoon in her hand clattering to the tiled floor. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Her breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.

“Mom? Dad?” she whispered.

Peering out from behind the dining table, Ana's small frame trembled as she caught sight of two men in long black coats standing in the living room. Their faces were obscured by the shadows cast by their wide-brimmed hats, but their presence was menacing.

A third figure stood beside them. A boy, perhaps no older than sixteen. His youthful face was pale under the dim light, his expression tense and unsure. Unlike the others, he wore no hat, and his wide eyes darted around the room as though trying to take everything in at once.

He stood close to one of the men, his hand clutching at the sleeve of the black coat as if seeking reassurance. His fingers tightened with every sound, the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of passing cars. Whatever he'd expected to see tonight, it clearly wasn't this.

Ana's gaze shifted to where their attention was fixed. Her parents lay on the floor, their bodies unnaturally still. Dark red blood flowed slowly beneath them, staining the hardwood.

“Mama?” she whimpered, barely able to form the word.

The younger boy turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Ana's. For a heartbeat, she thought he might say something, might call attention to her. But he didn't. Instead, he turned back to the others, and together they exited the house, their footsteps heavy and unhurried.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Ana didn't move at first, too paralyzed by fear and disbelief. Her small hands clutched the edge of the table as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality. Finally, she crawled out from her hiding spot and approached her parents’ lifeless bodies.

“Mama? Mama, wake up,” she whispered. “Dad? Come on, wake up... Please, stop playing.”

Her fingers brushed against her mother's arm, but it was cold, so cold. Tears blurred her vision as she shook her father's shoulder, willing him to respond.

The silence was unbearable. The cold breeze drifting through the open door sent chills down her spine.

She sat there for what felt like an eternity, unable to tear her eyes away from them.

It wasn't until the distant wail of sirens pierced the quiet that Ana stirred. Panic set in as red and blue lights painted the walls of her home. It was like a scene from True Crime, except this wasn't a movie set. The blood wasn't a prop and her parents were truly dead. Strangers in uniforms flooded the house.

They tried to pull Ana away from her parents, but she clung to them, sobbing and pleading for them to wake up. In the chaos, her hand brushed against her mother's pearl necklace, the one she always wore.

Without thinking, Ana grabbed the pearl necklace from her mother's neck, clutching it tightly as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality. Her fingers wrapped around it so hard that the delicate strand gave way with a sudden snap. Pearls scattered in all directions, tiny beads skittering across the wooden floor like raindrops in a storm.

Some bounced far, against the legs of the dining table, settling in the grooves of the floorboards. Others rolled further away, clinking softly as they came to rest in the corners of the room. A few landed near the pool of blood, their pristine white surfaces soaking up the crimson, staining them forever. One pearl, larger than the rest, stopped just short of her father's hand, lying there like a cruel token of the life that had been lost.

Ana stared at the scattered pearls, her breathing shallow and uneven. It was as if the necklace, too, had broken under the weight of the night's horror, leaving behind pieces she could never put back together.

“Hey, kid,” a voice said, startling her. A hand rested on her shoulder, firm but not unkind. Ana turned her head slowly, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto a young officer crouched beside her. His face was lined with concern, his words soft but urgent. “We need to get you out of here, okay? You're safe now.”

Safe? The word felt foreign, almost meaningless as she knelt beside her parents’ lifeless bodies. She didn't move, didn't speak, her hands still trembling as they hovered over her mother's arm.

“Come on,” the officer urged. He tried to lift her, but Ana clung to her parents, her small hands gripping her mother's dress.

“No!” she screamed. “Don't take me away! Mama! Dad!”

Another officer stepped in, a woman with kind but determined eyes. She knelt beside Ana, brushing the girl's hair back from her tear-streaked face. “Sweetheart, I know this is scary. I know you don't want to leave them. But we need to take care of you now, okay? Let us help.”

Ana resisted at first, her cries echoing through the room. But her strength, fueled by grief and desperation, waned quickly. She felt herself being lifted, her legs dangling limply as the young officer carried her out of the house.

The night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. She blinked against the brightness of the flashing lights, her ears ringing as voices and radio chatter swirled around her. Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, the weight of it unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

The ride to the station was a blur. She was placed in the back of a patrol car, the hum of the engine and the muffled voices of the officers in the front seat blending into a dull haze. Ana stared out the window, her reflection barely visible against the darkened glass.

At the station, she was led inside, the sterile fluorescent lights making her squint. They sat her in a small, cold chair, and someone offered her water, which she didn't touch. The world felt distant, like she was watching everything through a fogged window.

The officers asked her questions, but Ana barely heard them. The words blurred together in a haze, her mind trapped in a loop. Her parents' faces, their lifeless bodies, the cold, eerie silence, they all replayed over and over in her head. Each time, it felt like a fresh stab to the heart.

“Sweetheart,” a voice broke through the fog. “Can you tell us where you were when it happened?”

But Ana didn't respond. She sat there, her hands still clutching her mother's broken necklace, her eyes unfocussed but the questions continued.

The officers exchanged concerned glances as time passed. The clock on the wall ticked louder than anything else. The weight of her silence began to press in on them.

“Maybe she just needs some time,” one officer murmured, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

But just as they were about to give her space, the door opened, and another officer rushed in, his face pale.

“Sir, we've got a problem.”

“What is it?” the senior officer snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“We can't find her.”

A wave of shock rippled through the room. For a moment, no one spoke. Then the room exploded with movement.

“She was just here! Check the holding rooms!”

“Search the back hallways, the restrooms, everywhere!”

“Has anyone seen her leave?” The senior officer's voice trembled with urgency. “We need to find her. Now.”

An officer rushed toward the front desk, shouting to a colleague. “She wasn't supposed to be unsupervised! She couldn't have gone far!”

“How did this happen?” another officer shouted, pacing, his hand running through his hair in disbelief.

“She was fine just a minute ago!” a third officer argued.

But the questions were too much, too many. The fear and panic settled over them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The realization hit all at once. How could a little girl vanish so completely, especially on the same night her parents had been brutally murdered?

"She could've been taken," someone muttered. "We need to find her. She's just a kid!"

The commotion escalated as officers rushed in and out, shouting orders, pulling out their radios, and sending squads to comb through every inch of the station. Their panic mirrored their confusion. Where could she possibly be?

Who saw her last?

Who was supposed to be watching her?

The questions rang through the room, sharp and relentless. No one could answer.

A cold sweat broke out on the senior officer's brow as he barked, “Find her! NOW!”

“It was a cold and dark night.” That's how Ana would have described it if anyone had asked. The kind of night that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and endless.

She walked. And walked. Even when her legs trembled, when her feet ached and her knees buckled, she kept moving. Each step was an act of will, her small frame dragging itself forward through the emptiness.

“No stars tonight,” Ana murmured to herself. “So tired, need to get home.”

Those were the first words she'd spoken since she was pulled from her parents’ lifeless bodies.

The streets were eerily quiet, abandoned like a forgotten relic of life. The night air clawed at her skin, sharp and unrelenting. Her breath puffed out in small, visible clouds, dissipating into the void as if the night itself was swallowing them.

Her only source of light came from the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. Each one sputtered weakly before plunging her back into darkness, like they too were struggling to survive.

This wasn't the big city where bright neon signs and bustling noise filled the night. Here, in this small, overlooked town, there wasn't much of anything. The roads were cracked, the sidewalks uneven, and the infrastructure barely functional. It felt as if the town had been abandoned by more than just people—it had been forgotten by the world itself.

Ana moved forward, her path guided by memory alone. She retraced the route from the police station, her steps slow but deliberate. Thankfully, there weren't many turns, no labyrinth of streets to confuse her. Still, the way felt impossibly long, as though the night stretched out in an unending expanse.

Finally, the house came into view.

As Ana neared her home, her heart clenched at the sight of it, a dark silhouette against the muted glow of the streetlights. Police tape fluttered in the cold breeze, a garish reminder of the horrors that had unfolded inside.

But her eyes were drawn across the street.

The neighbor's house stood in stark contrast, its windows mostly dark, save for one faintly lit room upstairs. The warm glow spilled through the curtains, flickering slightly as if someone were pacing back and forth inside.

"They're awake," Ana thought, her gaze fixed on the light.

She stopped in her tracks, her breath hitching. They must have heard the gunshot, must have been the ones to call the police. For a moment, she imagined them peering out from behind their curtains, frightened and unsure, dialing for help as the sound of violence shattered the night.

The thought of knocking on their door crossed her mind. What if they let her in? What if they held her, comforted her, told her everything would be okay?

Her small hands tightened into fists at her sides. The idea of being in a house with people who were alive was tempting, almost unbearably so. She took a hesitant step toward the street, her foot brushing against the cracked asphalt.

But she stopped.

The thought of their pity, their sympathetic glances, made her stomach churn. How could they possibly understand? What could they say that would make any of this better? They didn't lose everything tonight.

Her home, dark, cold, and empty was waiting for her. But it was still hers. It was the last place she had been with her parents, the only place in the world where their presence lingered.

With a shaky breath, Ana turned back toward her house. She forced herself to move forward, step by step, her heart sinking further with every step.

The neighbor's light flickered behind her, but she didn't look back.

Ana didn't hesitate. She didn't stop to consider the tape or the flashing memories of blood and silence it brought back. She slipped around to the back of the house, her small hands grasping at the familiar grooves of the windowsill. With one swift push, she climbed through the window, landing softly inside.

The house was silent, more so than it had ever been. The air felt heavy, pressing down on her tiny shoulders. She moved through the rooms with a mechanical slowness, her bare feet padding against the cold wooden floor.

When she reached her parents’ bedroom, her chest tightened. The bed stood there, untouched, as if waiting for them to return. The faint scent of her mother's perfume still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint musk of her father's cologne.

Ana climbed onto the bed, pulling the blanket around her like a cocoon. She curled up in the center, her small body dwarfed by the vast emptiness around her.

For the first time in her life, the bed didn't greet her with the warmth of her parents’ hugs. There was no soothing voice to lull her to sleep, no strong arms to make her feel safe.

And for the first time, Ana truly understood what it meant to be alone.

Morning came, though Ana didn't care. The pale light filtering through the curtains felt cold and intrusive. She lay still in her parents’ bed, her tiny body dwarfed by the soaked pillows and crumpled sheets, stained with hours of silent tears.

Her mind spiraled further into the abyss of her loss, replaying their faces, their laughter, their love. Each memory twisted into the haunting image of their lifeless bodies, the dark red pool beneath them, and the echo of the gunshot that had shattered her world.

She didn't hear the hum of a vehicle engine pulling up outside. She didn't hear the soft creak of the front door opening or the marching of boots on the wooden floorboards. The house had visitors, but Ana was too deep in her grief to notice.

Then her parents’ bedroom door creaked open.

A chill ran through her entire body, snapping her back to the present. Her breath hitched, and every muscle in her body froze.

All she could think to do was lie as still as possible under the blanket, willing herself invisible. She pulled the covers closer and moved her small hands over her mouth and nose, desperate to muffle the sound of her shaky breaths.

Had they come to finish her off?

The thought hit her like ice water. Her mind raced. Did the boy from last night rat her out?

The pit in her stomach grew deeper. Was she about to die?

She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering in her chest. Silent tears slid down her cheeks as she whispered a prayer into the suffocating warmth of the blanket.

“Please,” she murmured to whoever might be listening. “Take me to Mum and Dad.”

The door creaked wider, and Ana's breath caught.

A tall silhouette filled the doorway, framed by the soft glow of morning light behind it. The figure wore what looked like a hat, its shape casting an eerie shadow across the room.

Ana's heart sank.

The figure moved forward slowly, each step deliberate, almost taunting. Their boots scraped softly against the floorboards, the sound drawing closer and closer. It felt surreal, like a terrible nightmare she couldn't wake from.

The figure stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over her small frame. Then, slowly, they reached out a hand, the gesture unnervingly deliberate.

Ana's body tensed, her muscles coiled like a spring. Her mind screamed for her to move, to bolt from the bed and make a run for it. She gathered her courage, ready to jump and scream bloody murder.

And then the figure spoke.

“Little girl? Is that you?”

The voice was deep, unfamiliar, but carried no malice. It wasn't harsh or cold—it was steady, curious.

Ana's heart skipped a beat. She peeked out from under the blanket, her wide, tear-filled eyes meeting the shadowed figure standing before her.