By Carolina Oquendo

It started with the storm. Not just rain, but a downpour so fierce it felt like the sky had cracked open. Wind pressed against the windows with the urgency of something trying to get in. The trees outside bent low, whispering warnings. And inside, everything was too still.

Then – drip. Drip. Splash.

A sudden cold shock on my head. I yelped, jumped back. Another splash hit my arm. I looked up. The ceiling above the hallway was darkening – fast. My breath caught. A knot twisted in my chest. I ran for towels, bowls, anything I could grab. The water was spreading, not just down the walls but into the floor. My floor.

No, no, no. It’s going to ruin everything.

By morning, the storm had passed, but the unease remained. The towels were soaked. The boards had started to warp. I was left staring at the stain on the ceiling like it was a message I couldn’t quite translate.

So, I did what every responsible property owner does: I called a contractor. The number came from a friend of a friend. No website. Just, “She’s good. Different. Quiet.”

She arrived two days later. No name on the truck. Just her – boots, jeans, a worn canvas jacket, and a small leather-bound notebook tucked under one arm.

“You called about a leak?” she asked. Her voice was steady. Earthy. A little amused.

I nodded, a little embarrassed by the mess. She stepped inside without hesitation. Didn’t scan the room with judgment. Just listened. Not to me. To the house.

“It hit hard, didn’t it?” she said, walking slowly down the hallway.

“The storm?” I asked.

She nodded. “You know, storms don’t usually break things. They reveal what’s already broken.” She moved with intention, trailing her hand gently along the wall, pausing beneath the ceiling stain. “You were standing here when it happened,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t respond.

“Mmm, it looks like you’re still a little shaken,” she said.

That, I couldn’t deny. “Yes. I guess it wasn’t just the water,” I murmured.

She looked up and met my eyes. “No,” she said. “It never is.”

We moved into the living room. The floor there had taken on water too. A slow seep that curled the edges of the boards. She crouched down and ran her fingers along the grain. She didn’t touch it like it was damaged. She touched it like it had something to say.

“You’ve patched things before,” she said.

I nodded. “Too many times.”

She looked up. “And not just in the house.”

I felt that one in my gut – the kind of truth you want to argue with, but can’t.

She stood, wiped her hands on her jeans. “I can fix this,” she said. “But that’s not really what you’re asking for, is it?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t call me because of a leak. You called me because something cracked open in you, and now the pieces don’t fit where they used to.”

I sat down, suddenly tired. “It’s like I woke up and realized I don’t belong in the life I built.”

She nodded. “And now you don’t know who you are without it.”

A beat passed.

“I’m used to being the one people count on,” I said. “At work, in relationships, with my family, in every version of myself I’ve lived through.”

“Steady. Available. Predictable. Safe?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I’m exhausted,” I said. “Not from doing too much… but from pretending it’s still working.”

She leaned back against the wall. “That’s the first thing to give out,” she said. “The pretending. The role starts to fray at the edges. You still show up, but the energy isn’t there anymore.” She paused. “And underneath all that… you start to feel it. The part of you that’s whispering, ‘I’m done.’”

My eyes brimmed with tears. “I did say that,” I whispered. “Quietly. I didn’t even know what I meant. But I said it.”

She smiled, gentle but unwavering. “And that’s when everything begins to move.”

“I always thought I had to finish what I started. See things through. Make it work. Be the light, the harmony to everything and everyone around me.”

“Those were vows. Old ones. Made in moments when you thought your worth came from being needed.”

“And now?”

“Now,” she said, “you get to unmake them.”

✨AI Generated

We sat there in silence, the room full of what no longer needed to be said. Then, suddenly, the words came.

“I think I made a vow,” I said. “Not out loud, but somewhere deep. Maybe in another life. Or maybe just this one, over and over again.”

She nodded. “What was it?”

I felt it gather in my chest, heavy and ready.

“I will be the reflection everyone needs me to be… even if it means I never get to be fully myself.”

The words dropped between us. Heavy. Ancient. True.

She didn’t interrupt. She let them echo.

“Is it still true?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Not anymore.”

She reached out and took my hand. Not to comfort. To witness.

“Then let’s honor her,” she said. “The one who made that vow. She gave everything. She held so much. And she got you here.”

I closed my eyes and saw that version of me – the shapeshifter, the reflector, the safe one. And I whispered, “Thank you. You were everything for everyone. And now… you can rest. Because I’m ready to be everything for me.”

And in that moment, something unlatched inside me. Not just release. Not just relief. But freedom. And I breathed deeply.

The contractor stood quietly, brushed the dust from her knees, and walked to the door.

“I’m going to take a look at the roof,” she said, reaching for her jacket. “Might as well check where the storm found its way in.”

I looked up at her, heart still pounding. “Will you be back?”

She smiled. “You’ll know when I am.” And then she was gone.

I looked around the room. The warped floor. The water-stained ceiling. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had. It wasn’t damage anymore. It was a life I no longer needed to keep together.

And then – the soft buzz of my phone on the table beside me.

A message. Her name. My oldest friend. The one who had known me through every version of myself. The one who still loved the role I was slowly slipping out of.

I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. I already knew the tone. Warm. Familiar. Soft. The kind of message that said, “I see you,” but only through the lens of the person I used to be.

I felt the pull – that quiet ache to not disappoint. To not confuse her. To not feel the soft rupture, the angst that might come from changing shape.

And then I felt the weight of the vow I had just released: I will be the reflection you need me to be… even if it means I never get to be fully myself.

Not anymore.

My hand hovered above the screen. And gently, with care, I let it rest without replying. Not out of anger. But to honor the self I had just chosen. “We will speak again… but not until I can do so from the center of who I truly am.”

I sat there, present, breathing slowly, something raw and real settling inside me.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. Soft. Unhurried. 

I opened it, and there she was. The contractor. Same boots. Same eyes. Same quiet knowing. She didn’t step inside. Just stood there, looking at me – not with concern, but with that same steady presence she’d carried all along.

She stood, speaking with quiet care. “Maybe you’ll want patch the ceiling,” she said. “Fix the gutter. Replace the boards.” She glanced around the room – at the stained ceiling, the swollen floorboards, the old familiar corners. “Maybe you’ll try to fix everything – make it feel whole again. Like it once was.”

Then she looked back at me, her voice softer.

“But maybe… it’s not just the house that’s tired. Maybe it’s you. Maybe this space – these walls, this version of your life – has held you as long as it could.”

She stepped closer, no rush in her steps.

“You could fix it and stay. And it’ll keep standing, for a while. But once you’ve said ‘I’m done’ – once you’ve let that truth echo through the beams – you already know…”

She paused, gentle but unwavering. “…you’re not meant to live in the same space anymore. You’re already becoming something else.”

“I don’t know what happens next,” I said with a bit of trepidation.

“You’re not supposed to. You’re going from being normal, being mainstream, to being different, to being absolutely unique.”

Then she was gone.

And I remained. In the quiet. In the house I no longer needed to protect. In the life I wasn’t trying to hold together anymore. The floor beneath me still held the shape of water. The ceiling still bore its scar. Nothing was resolved. But something had been released.

I sat on the floor, back against the wall. I didn’t feel clear. I felt… uneasy. Like the wind had changed direction, but I hadn’t yet turned to face it. And then a memory stirred, something I’d heard once, long ago, and suddenly felt truer than ever:

“And for a brief instant, there is a bit of anxiety saying, ‘But then, what next?’ And the moment that anxiety seems to come up, it just passes through. It has no patterns to land on. It has no old rhythms to tie into. The anxiety comes and it goes.” 

I didn’t know what came next. But I knew I couldn’t go back.

And that uneasiness, that pressure in the center of my chest, wasn’t something to fix. It was just the echo of becoming someone I had never been before.

The words of the Master in this story are based on Adamus’ channels from:

Transhuman Series – Shoud 1

Transhuman Series – Shoud 3

Emergence Series – Shoud 3