Flower Between The Banks

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I held her tightly as I carried her in my arms.

"Let's go,"

I said, and we started walking.

In that moment, the sky opened up—not with scattered drops, but with a downpour of cold rain that suddenly poured over us, as if trying to wash away the dust of this long, exhausting day. The sound of rain striking the ground was loud, creating a violent rhythm that echoed through the narrow alleys. I felt the cold seeping into my bones, my clothes clinging to my body, but I pulled Rosen closer to my chest, trying to shield her from the harsh weather.

Raindrops slid down her small face, gathering on her long lashes, her soaked hair sticking to her forehead. She didn't cry; her eyes wandered in every direction, widening in fear every time we passed strange faces lurking behind half-open doors, heard the barking of a dog trying to escape the rain, or saw barefoot children running through the alleys, their faces stained with mud, hiding under a collapsing roof.

This world was foreign and terrifying to her—a world she only knew from the stories told by the wealthy about the "savage poor" who lived in darkness, whose only aim was theft and looting. She clung to me as if I were the only lifeline in this cold chaos.

"Are… are you from here?"

she asked in a soft voice, barely audible over the relentless rain. Her words came out slowly, as if afraid to break the strangeness of the moment.

"Yes,"

I answered, trying to reassure her, a faint smile forming on my tired lips. Then I added, pointing ahead,

"This is my house. Our house."

When we reached our narrow street, our house looked like the others—made of clay and old wood eroded by the years, its wooden door cracked with deep lines along its surface, and its small windows barely letting in any light, like shut eyes hardly seeing the outside world. The smell of wet earth and rain blended with the scent of smoke rising from neighbors' homes, creating a mixture of aromas I had known since childhood.

I opened the door slowly, the creak of rusted hinges echoing around us, and stepped inside, carrying Rosen with me. The single room we lived in was painfully simple, nearly devoid of comfort. Two modest wooden beds lay on the ground, covered with worn wool blankets. Across from them was a tiny kitchen, a small wooden table in the center, and a few cracked clay pots on a wooden shelf.

The scent of fresh bread mixed with wild herbs and the warm aroma of stew filled the room—a scent I'd known since I was young, one that meant safety and warmth.

My aunt Venice sat on her bed, wrapped in an old wool blanket, as if trying to resist the cold and the illness slowly consuming her body. Her features were tired, carved by years of hardship, but her eyes still held the warmth and tenderness of a flame—a light that never went out.

When she lifted her head and saw Rosen, her eyes widened in pure surprise, then quickly turned to visible concern, as if she had seen something unbelievable.

"Aaron? Who is this little girl, my son?"

she asked in a weak voice, trying to sit up with difficulty, reaching out her tired hand to steady herself on the floor.

"Aunt Venice..."

I said quickly, trying to calm her down, gently moving Rosen aside so she could see her more clearly.

"I found her in the Bremor alley. She's lost… and it looks like her leg is injured."

My aunt looked at Rosen with examining eyes, then at her dirty clothes that bore the marks of a long and painful journey, and at her pale face and frightened eyes. I saw a mix of pity and sorrow in her gaze.

"Come here, little one,"

she said, extending her tired, wrinkled hand and inviting Rosen closer. Her hand was warm despite the cold weather—a hand that bore the traces of years of hard work and tireless care.

I gently set Rosen down. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes shifting between me and my aunt, then she slowly limped toward her, each step laced with pain. When she reached my aunt's side, Venice gently touched Rosen's hair, as if touching a rare flower or a fragile creature in need of protection. I felt something stir in my chest—a mix of relief at seeing my aunt accept her, and fear of the new responsibility about to fall upon us.

"Poor girl... sweet child,"

my aunt whispered, then gently pulled Rosen to sit beside her on the bed. Her movement carried all the tenderness she had.

"Let me see your foot,"

she said, extending her hand toward Rosen's leg. Rosen lifted her beautiful dress, which looked odd and extravagant in our humble home, revealing her injured foot. It was bleeding, swollen, and had turned a painful shade of blue from a hard fall. My aunt looked at me, her eyes serious.

"Aaron, go quickly. Bring the ointment I made, a clean cloth, and some warm water."

I rushed to get what she asked for from a small wooden box that held dried herbs and a few simple medicines. I took out the ointment she had made from medicinal herbs to treat wounds and pain, along with a clean piece of cloth and a small bowl of warm water. I handed her everything, and she began her work in silence and care.

She first cleaned the foot with the cloth and warm water, dabbing gently, but Rosen let out soft whimpers with each touch, her eyes tightening from the pain. Her face twisted with painful expressions, and she pulled back slightly, but my aunt held her foot firmly and gently, whispering reassuring words.

"It's okay, little one. It will all be over soon."

She wiped away the dried blood and mud, then pressed lightly on the swollen area to examine the wound. Rosen trembled more and almost screamed, but bit her lower lip to keep the sound inside.

Then my aunt began applying the green ointment to the inflamed wound. It cooled the swollen area, but at first Rosen felt a slight sting, causing her to draw back again. Still, my aunt held her softly but steadily. She wrapped the clean cloth around Rosen's foot with care, tightening it slightly to keep it in place, then tied the ends. Her movements were slow and precise, as if she were handling the most precious thing she owned.

When she finished, she gently patted Rosen's foot, a warm smile spreading across her tired face.

"Don't worry, the wound will heal, and you'll be running again in no time,"

she said in a gentle voice. Then she stood and took Rosen to the small, humble bathroom in the corner of the room to wash her long hair without getting her injured foot wet. The warm water flowed over her head, washing away the dust of the road, and Rosen felt a kind of comfort she had never known before.

When they were done, my aunt dressed her in some of her old clothes, which were too small for her, but they were clean and warm. Then she wrapped the wool blanket around the girl as if shielding her from all the evils of the outside world.

I went to wash the mud and rain off my own body as well, changing out of the wet clothes that clung to me and made me shiver. I felt warmth return to my body after I put on dry clothes.

Rosen, who had been trembling from the cold and fear since I first saw her, now felt a new kind of warmth. A warmth unlike the luxury clothes she was used to, or the central heating of her grand palace. It was a human warmth—the warmth of kindness and care she had never known existed.

She looked at Aunt Venice with her wide eyes, as if seeing in her a safe haven from everything she had gone through.

"Are you hungry, little one?"

Aunt Venice asked in a tender voice, her warm tone melting the ice of fear in Rosen's heart. Rosen nodded faintly, her small mouth tight, barely making a sound.

"We have warm soup,"

said my aunt, then looked at me, her eyes shining with a touch of hope.

"Aaron, bring a bowl for our little guest."

I went to get the soup, my heart trembling with conflicting emotions. I was happy that my aunt welcomed her with such kindness I hadn't expected, but I was also worried. How would we feed a third mouth? How would we care for her? Our life was already hard enough—we barely managed to feed ourselves each day.

When I handed Rosen the bowl of soup, she held it in her tiny hands and stared at it in wonder. The scent of our poor man's soup wasn't familiar to her—it was a simple soup made from root vegetables and some herbs. But she started eating slowly, then with desperate speed, as if she hadn't eaten in days.

Every bite she swallowed told a story of hunger and fear she had endured. Her eyes shone with tears that didn't fall, as if she was ashamed of her hunger.

And because of the heavy rain that continued to fall without stopping, I couldn't go out afterward, so I stayed home watching over Rosen and my aunt.

That night, Rosen slept between Aunt Venice on the modest wooden bed, as if she had never known any other place in her life. She breathed quietly, her small face reflecting a peace I had not seen on her since I found her. I looked at her, then at my aunt who was smiling in her sleep as if she had found a piece of joy in her tired life, as if the presence of this little girl had lit something inside her.

But this flower... how would she live in this harsh world? I wondered to myself as I lay on the wooden bed beside them, watching the shadows dance on the walls from the dim candlelight. And the sound of the rain hitting the wooden roof. "How will I find her family?" I did not know that this question would lead me to a journey longer and harder than I imagined, and that this night was just the beginning of events that would change my whole life...

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