The sky bled gray as thunder cracked like bones in a vice grip. Rain pelted the coastline in relentless sheets, turning the winding roads into dark rivers. Amelia stood at the edge of the porch, the hem of her coat soaked, eyes squinting against the downpour. Her fingers trembled—not from cold, but from the weight of knowing the storm was only the beginning.
Behind her, the old beach house groaned against the wind, the wooden shutters banging like a warning drumbeat. She had come to the coastal town of Crestfall Cove to escape the noise of her life. Ironically, it was the silence that frightened her now.
She had always liked storms—until this one.
A crack of lightning split the sky and lit up the shoreline for a heartbeat. That was when she saw him.
A lone figure, half-running, half-stumbling through the rain. Soaked to the bone, his camera bag thumped against his hip. He reached the porch steps just as thunder roared again.
"Is this place safe?" he shouted over the wind.
Amelia hesitated. "Depends on what you're running from."
The man didn't smile. His eyes were sharp—green, focused, like he was used to looking danger straight in the face. "Tornado's heading inland. Got spun off from the cell. I saw it twist five miles out."
He ducked under the awning. Rain dripped from his shaggy hair and soaked leather jacket. He held out his hand. "David. I chase storms. But tonight… I think I'm done running toward one."
She looked at his hand, then shook it cautiously. "Amelia. I write about broken things. Seems we have something in common."
He gave a nod, a flicker of a smile in his otherwise worn expression. "Mind if I take shelter?"
"Already are."
The storm howled louder, shaking the old windowpanes. Amelia led him inside.
---
The house smelled like salt and cedar. Candlelight flickered in the living room—Amelia had lost power an hour ago, and the generator was buried under junk in the shed. David pulled off his jacket and boots, laying them by the fire. Water dripped from his sleeves as he surveyed the room.
"This place yours?" he asked.
"No. Belongs to a friend. She lets me crash here when I need to disappear."
"Disappearing sounds… familiar."
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
A long silence stretched between them as the wind screamed and branches scraped the windows like bony fingers. David moved toward the fireplace, crouching down and feeding more wood into the growing flames. His movements were practiced, methodical.
Amelia watched him for a moment. "So what kind of person chases storms for a living?"
David's lips twitched. "The kind who'd rather face a tornado than a conversation."
"Lucky me."
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers with a flicker of apology. "I didn't mean—"
"No. I get it." She leaned against the wall. "Silence is safer than truth. Until the wind knocks everything down and you have nothing to hide behind."
David stared at the fire. "Is that what happened to you?"
Amelia turned her head toward the window, her voice lower now. "Something like that."
Outside, a tree cracked and fell in the distance.
---
They ate in the living room—peanut butter sandwiches, the only thing she could find that didn't require power. He ate like a man who hadn't tasted food in days.
"This was supposed to be a quick trip," he said between bites. "Photograph the supercell, log the coordinates, move on. I've got a contract with a weather network in Chicago."
"And instead you landed in the middle of nowhere with a sandwich and a stranger," she said.
David smiled faintly. "I've had worse nights."
She tilted her head. "You always this calm during disasters?"
He looked up, eyes suddenly serious. "You get used to the sound of chaos. You start hearing patterns in the noise."
"You ever hear anything you didn't expect?"
"All the time," he said, voice low. "That's how you know you're still alive."
Amelia leaned forward slightly. "So… what brought you here, David? Really?"
His fingers tightened around the mug of tea she had made. "I used to chase storms with someone. Partner. She… didn't make it. Kansas, two years ago. I told myself I'd quit. Then a storm like this forms over Crestfall Cove and something inside me said—go."
Amelia studied him. "You wanted to find closure."
He exhaled. "Maybe. Or punishment. I'm still figuring that out."
She nodded, something in her chest tightening. "We're both running toward something we're afraid to face."
David looked at her. "What are you running from, Amelia?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she stood and walked to the window. The storm outside was monstrous now, a living, breathing thing. "I published a piece two years ago. Investigative. Exposed a local official in D.C. Corruption, bribery. I had proof. But… someone got hurt. Badly."
She turned to him. "I told myself it wasn't my fault. That truth mattered more than fallout. But I lost a friend. And my reputation."
David stood slowly, walking closer.
"You told the truth," he said. "Even if it cost you."
She looked up at him. "And you kept chasing something that already took from you."
The wind shrieked as if it were listening.
They stood only a foot apart now, the firelight dancing in their eyes. Neither moved. Neither dared.
But something had shifted.
---
The fire popped softly, a faint lullaby to the chaos raging outside. Shadows danced along the cabin walls—long, twisting shapes that mimicked the unease still resting between Amelia and David.
Amelia had retreated to the old floral armchair near the corner window. Legs tucked beneath her, mug in hand, she watched the storm through glass streaked with rain. "It's strange," she said softly, "how a storm outside can quiet the one inside… even if just for a while."
David sat across from her on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. His camera bag sat unopened beside him, a silent witness to the things he wasn't ready to confront.
"I know what you mean," he replied, voice just above a whisper. "It's like the world's too loud all the time. And then nature comes along, tears everything apart, and suddenly… it makes sense."
She turned toward him, curiosity etched across her face. "Is that why you do it? Chase storms? For the clarity?"
David stared at his hands for a moment. "No. Not at first." He glanced up at her. "At first, it was for the adrenaline. The photos. The thrill of being the only person running toward what everyone else fled from."
"And now?"
"Now?" His voice lowered. "I guess I chase the storm because it's the only time I know I'm not numb."
Amelia's breath caught. She knew that feeling too well—walking through life like a ghost, barely feeling the weight of her own footsteps.
The wind rattled the window beside her.
David's eyes flicked to it. "That window's old. Glass might not hold."
"I reinforced it earlier with duct tape and stubborn hope," she said with a wry smile.
He chuckled—a genuine one this time. "Hope is the strongest glue there is."
Amelia let the silence stretch, letting that rare sound linger in the room like perfume.
Then she stood. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
---
They climbed the narrow wooden stairs, each creak of the floorboards swallowed by the storm outside. At the end of the hallway was a door, slightly ajar. She pushed it open to reveal a small study.
Books lined one wall, their spines faded from years of salt air and sun. A writing desk sat under the window, covered in old journals, photographs, and sketches.
David walked slowly to the desk. He picked up a black-and-white photograph—two girls, laughing, arm in arm, wind in their hair. "You?"
Amelia nodded. "And her name was Lena. She owned this house."
"She's the one you said let you crash here?"
A pause.
"She was the friend I lost. The one hurt because of my story."
David set the photo down carefully. "What happened?"
Amelia leaned against the doorway. "After my article ran, there were threats. Phone calls. Anonymous letters. I went into hiding. Lena insisted she'd be fine, that I shouldn't worry. Then someone set her car on fire. She wasn't inside, but she was never the same after that."
David swallowed. "That's not your fault."
"She was targeted because of me. I wore my integrity like armor, and she got caught in the blast."
David stepped closer. "And yet… you still told the truth."
"Some days I'm proud of that," she admitted. "Others, I wish I'd stayed quiet."
He looked at her then—truly looked. "You did what was right. Even if it cost you. That matters."
Their eyes met, and something passed between them. Something weightless, invisible, but impossible to ignore.
---
Back downstairs, the storm showed no signs of mercy. A transformer blew in the distance, flashing blue like war lightning. The wind howled so fiercely it sounded almost human.
David checked the windows again, flashlight in hand. "There's a drop in barometric pressure. Fast. That's not good."
"What does that mean?"
He turned, urgency in his tone. "Could be a secondary cell forming nearby. Or worse—a funnel drop. We might need to move to a lower level."
Amelia's eyes widened. "There's no basement. Just a root cellar—out back."
He was already grabbing their things. "Then we go there. Now."
They pulled on jackets and boots, the chill in the air making Amelia shiver. She grabbed a blanket and her grandmother's locket from the mantle. A lifetime fit into one pocket.
Outside, the rain had turned to piercing needles. Trees bent like grieving mothers in the wind. David held her arm firmly as they darted across the backyard, the flashlight cutting narrow lines through the darkness.
The root cellar door was heavy, rusted, but David wrenched it open. They scrambled down into the earth.
---
The cellar smelled of wet stone, soil, and something metallic. Shelves lined the walls, filled with pickling jars and dust-covered supplies. The flashlight beam danced across a single cot and an old oil lamp.
David shut the door and dropped the beam. "We'll be safe here. For now."
Amelia leaned against the wall, catching her breath. "You've done this before."
He nodded, his voice low. "Too many times."
As thunder cracked above them, the walls shuddered slightly. Amelia wrapped the blanket tighter around her.
"I used to love storms," she said, voice trembling. "Now I just want them to pass."
David sat beside her on the floor. "They always do. Eventually."
She turned to him. "How do you stay so calm?"
"I'm not," he admitted. "I'm terrified. Every time. But fear sharpens the edges. Reminds me what matters."
She studied him—really studied him. The weather-beaten face, the tired eyes, the quiet strength in the way he didn't flinch when everything shook around him.
"What matters to you, David?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. But then, softly: "Knowing there's someone left to come home to."
And just like that, the storm outside seemed quieter—not gone, but distant.
---
The oil lamp sputtered as David lit it, casting a golden circle of safety in the dark womb of the root cellar. Outside, the wind had begun to roar with a new, violent pitch—no longer just a storm, but something primal. Something with teeth.
Amelia sat on the cot, her legs drawn up, arms wrapped around them. She stared at the flickering flame.
"I haven't been this scared in a long time," she said, her voice small.
David leaned against a support beam, knees bent, watching her. "That's the thing about fear. It forces you to feel alive again."
She glanced at him. "Is that why you live so close to danger? To feel something?"
He hesitated. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just afraid of stillness. Of what comes up in the silence."
Amelia gave a sad smile. "I used to think silence was peace. But lately, it's just... a loud reminder of everything I lost."
A sudden groan of wood above made them both flinch. The storm was growing more violent—something was shifting.
David stood. "I need to check the air vents. Make sure we're not sealing ourselves in."
He moved to the far wall, where a rusted grating let in faint air from above. He tried to lift it. It didn't budge.
"David?" Her voice carried tension now.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved back and examined a second vent. It was partially blocked—by debris or something worse.
"We've got limited airflow," he said carefully. "That means we can't stay here too long. If the storm doesn't move on soon, we'll have to risk heading back up."
He didn't add the other concern—that the pressure changes were off. Too rapid. Too sharp. It wasn't behaving like a typical coastal cyclone. Something about it reminded him of the Midwest. Tornadic.
He returned to her. "We'll be okay. Just... keep talking. Keeps the fear small."
Amelia drew a deep breath. "Alright. Let's trade secrets."
His brows lifted. "Now?"
She nodded. "You've seen me vulnerable. I think it's only fair."
David exhaled. "Alright. Your move."
She hesitated, then said quietly, "I was engaged once. Three years ago. To a man named Jonah. He was... kind. Steady. A doctor. My opposite."
"What happened?"
"I ruined it." Her voice broke slightly. "After the whistleblowing story... after Lena... I changed. I became distant, restless. He needed someone whole, not someone haunted."
"You weren't broken," David said. "You were wounded."
She looked at him with soft, grateful eyes. "Your turn."
He leaned his head back against the beam, eyes closed for a moment. Then: "My brother died in a storm I didn't see coming."
The room fell silent.
"I was twenty-two. A rookie with a camera and a God complex. I took him with me—thought it'd be a cool road trip. But I missed a sign. A rotation. We were too close when it dropped."
He looked at her now, every word carved in guilt.
"He didn't make it. I did. That day, I learned that storms don't just happen outside."
Amelia reached across the space, took his hand.
"I'm sorry."
David looked down at their hands. Her fingers were warm, steady. The first steady thing he'd felt in years.
"I've spent every day since trying to out-run it," he said. "The guilt. The silence. Maybe that's why I chase them. Because if I'm out there... I'm not in here."
He tapped his chest lightly.
Outside, the storm screamed—sharp and high like metal bending in the wind. Something slammed above them. Then again. And again.
They froze.
"That's not wind," Amelia whispered.
David grabbed the flashlight and moved toward the door, careful. He turned off the lamp and beckoned her to silence.
Another sound—something sliding. Then a distinct creak.
David mouthed, "Stay here."
He climbed the cellar steps quietly, pressed his ear to the door. His muscles tensed.
Footsteps.
Inside the house.
Not just the wind.
Not just the storm.
A shadow passed across the sliver of moonlight visible under the door. Slow. Measured.
David moved back down to Amelia.
"There's someone in the house."
Her breath caught.
"Could be a looter," he added. "Some people take advantage during evacuations."
"Are we locked in?"
"From the inside, yes. But if they find the cellar—"
A sudden slam. Footsteps directly above them.
David whispered, "We need to prepare."
He searched the shelves. Found an old rusted crowbar. Handed Amelia a hammer with a cracked handle.
"We'll wait. If they try to open the hatch, we surprise them."
Amelia nodded, jaw tight. "We do this together."
---
The minutes dragged like hours. Every creak above sounded like a scream. The storm continued its howl, the cellar thick with fear and anticipation.
Then—quiet.
Too quiet.
David moved to the hatch again, listening. Nothing.
Amelia watched him with wide eyes. "Did they leave?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. They're waiting too."
The stalemate stretched.
Then, suddenly—BANG.
The hatch wrenched. The hinges squealed. Someone was trying to force it.
David gripped the crowbar tighter. Amelia rose beside him, hammer clenched.
Another bang.
And then—nothing.
David exhaled slowly.
Suddenly, his phone—long dead earlier—lit up briefly. One bar of service. A message pinged.
A warning alert:
"Confirmed tornado touchdown near coastal Route 7. Seek immediate shelter."
He showed it to Amelia. Her eyes widened.
"That's here."
They exchanged one look—and then the air changed.
Pressure dropped.
Silence fell.
And then—
The sound.
A deafening, monstrous freight-train howl.
David shouted, "DOWN! NOW!"
They dropped behind the stone shelves just as the ground shook violently. Above, it sounded like the house was being ripped from the earth.
Boards shattered.
Glass exploded.
Something—no, everything—collapsed.
Dust rained.
Then—blackness.
---
Silence.
Thick. Pressing. Alive.
David blinked against the dust swirling in the thin shafts of light trickling through the cracks. Somewhere above, the world had come undone. But down here—in the belly of the storm—they had survived.
"Amelia?" he croaked.
A cough. Then her voice, shaky but strong. "I'm here."
He crawled toward her. She was covered in dirt, hair wild, the hammer still clutched in her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw him—relief, raw and unfiltered.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, already checking for injuries.
She shook her head. "Just… shaken. You?"
He smiled faintly. "Still intact."
They sat in the debris-lit stillness for a moment. The air tasted of earth and fear. But it was quiet—eerily so.
David checked his phone again. One flicker of signal. No texts. No alerts. "We're in the eye," he murmured.
Amelia looked up, confused. "The what?"
"The eye of the storm. That strange pocket of calm in the center. It doesn't last. But it's… like the world holds its breath."
Outside, the wind had died. The rain paused. Birds, even, seemed to wait.
They both stood and climbed the cellar steps.
David hesitated at the hatch, then forced it open. It resisted—half-buried under a fallen tree—but he managed to push through.
Daylight spilled into the cellar. Pale and bruised.
They emerged into a different world.
---
The cabin was gone.
Or rather—what remained was unrecognizable. A corner of the structure still stood, half a wall. The rest had been torn apart and scattered like paper.
Debris littered the lawn—shingles, splintered wood, shards of glass. Power lines hung like vines from tilting poles. The truck was overturned, crushed partially by a limb.
Amelia stared in disbelief. "It's gone."
David touched her arm gently. "But you're not."
She turned to him then—something deep and unguarded in her eyes. "We could've died."
"But we didn't."
"Why?" she whispered.
He didn't have an answer.
They stood in silence, the world holding its breath with them.
---
Later, they sat on a fallen log. Amelia had wrapped the blanket around both of them. David had found two bottles of water from the emergency pack he'd kept in the cellar years ago.
The quiet was surreal.
No sirens. No cars. No distant voices.
Just them.
"I always thought," Amelia said, staring at the horizon, "that endings came with fireworks or music. But sometimes… they just sneak in. Like thieves. Take everything."
David looked at her. "Maybe what they don't take… is what matters."
She turned to him, soft tears in her eyes. "I didn't expect you. Or this. And I definitely didn't expect to feel anything… again."
He didn't speak. Just reached over, brushing a smudge of ash from her cheek with his thumb. Then his fingers lingered along her jaw.
The space between them evaporated.
He leaned in—slow, deliberate—and she met him halfway.
Their lips touched. Tentative. Searching.
A kiss not of lust, but survival.
Of two people who'd been through the storm—literally and otherwise—and somehow found shelter in each other.
---
Later, in the fading light, they lay on the blanket under a cracked oak tree. Above them, clouds shifted, opening to brief glimpses of golden sky.
Amelia rested her head on his shoulder. "You think we'll make it through the second half?"
David glanced upward. "Storms return. But so does the sun."
She smiled faintly. "Philosopher and storm chaser. Dangerous combination."
He chuckled. "I could say the same for investigative journalists with haunted eyes."
Her smile faded to something more meaningful. "We lost a lot. But maybe we found something too."
He looked at her then, serious. "When this storm passes… when the real world returns… what happens to us?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I want to find out. Together."
David nodded slowly. "Then that's all I need."
The wind stirred again. Faint but rising.
The eye was passing.
---
Morning brought the first real light.
The sky, once bruised and seething, now stretched pale blue above the battered coastline. The air smelled of salt, earth, and splinters—like the ghost of the storm still lingered, watching.
David and Amelia stood at what remained of the road. The path into town was a mess of broken limbs, torn-up asphalt, and stray power lines. The wind had left nothing untouched.
"We can't drive it," David said, surveying the wreckage. "We'll have to walk."
Amelia adjusted the straps of the salvaged backpack—two water bottles, a flashlight, a few protein bars. "You okay to hike?"
He looked at her. "Are you?"
A glance passed between them. They were bruised, dirty, and worn—but alive. And something had shifted between them. Not just the kiss. Not just the survival. Something quieter, heavier. Real.
David nodded. "Let's go."
---
The walk was slow, but steady.
Amelia picked her way carefully, eyes catching remnants of life: a broken child's bicycle, a photo album spread across the road, a cracked mailbox. Every item told a story—of loss, of survival, of people whose names they didn't know but could almost feel.
David broke the silence. "This reminds me of Joplin. Or Moore. Towns stripped to the bone."
"You've been in this kind of aftermath before?" she asked.
He nodded grimly. "More times than I can count. But every time… it leaves a different scar."
They rounded a corner where the remains of a diner stood, its windows blown out and stools scattered in the gravel.
A faint voice called from inside. "Help! Somebody!"
David rushed forward. Inside, pinned beneath a beam, was an elderly man with blood streaking down his temple. Amelia hurried beside him.
David crouched. "Hang on, sir. We've got you."
Together, they lifted the beam—just enough for the man to wriggle free.
He collapsed into Amelia's arms, coughing, crying.
"You're okay," she whispered. "You're safe now."
David searched the back. "No one else?"
The man shook his head. "I was closing up. Got caught under when the roof gave. Thought I was a goner."
"You're lucky," David said.
"No," the man rasped. "You're the lucky ones. You found each other."
---
Hours later, they reached the edge of the town center.
Chaos met them.
Emergency crews. News vans. Red Cross tents. People crying, shouting, reuniting.
Amelia stopped short, overwhelmed.
David stepped beside her. "You okay?"
She nodded slowly. "I wasn't ready to come back to the world."
"You're not the same person you were when you left it."
They entered the field hospital tent. Paramedics took their vitals. A nurse cleaned the cuts on David's arm. Another handed Amelia a thermal blanket.
An officer approached. "We need to take statements. You two together?"
David opened his mouth—but Amelia spoke first. "Yes. We are."
David looked at her, surprised. Then smiled.
---
Later, Amelia stood in front of a mirror in a makeshift restroom.
The reflection startled her.
Hair tangled, skin smudged, eyes too wide—but something glowed beneath it all. Something calm. Something found.
She splashed her face, then paused.
A familiar voice rang from the hallway.
"Amelia?"
She turned—and froze.
It was Jonah.
Her ex-fiancé.
Still wearing his doctor's badge. Still with the same calm brown eyes. But now, something unreadable in his expression.
"I saw your name on the intake," he said softly. "I had to come."
She stepped out slowly. "Jonah. You're here."
"I volunteered when the alert went out. I didn't expect to find… you."
They stood awkwardly for a beat.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes. I was caught outside town. Rode out the worst of it."
"With someone?"
She hesitated. "Yes. With David."
Jonah absorbed that. His jaw flexed. "Is he… important to you?"
She didn't answer right away. Then: "Yes."
Jonah nodded slowly. "Then I'm glad you had someone."
Her eyes softened. "Jonah—"
He raised a hand gently. "No apologies. We ended for a reason. And you look… alive in a way I haven't seen in years."
A faint tear welled in her eye. "Thank you."
They embraced—brief, meaningful. Then Jonah stepped back.
"Take care of yourself, Amelia."
"I will."
---
She found David standing by a tent pole, arms folded. Watching.
"I saw," he said quietly.
Amelia stepped close. "It was closure. That's all."
"You don't owe me explanations."
"No," she said. "But I want you to have them."
He searched her face. "So what now?"
She smiled faintly. "Now we rebuild. Starting with trust. One piece at a time."
He reached out and took her hand. "Then let's get started."
---
One month later.
The coastal town breathed again.
Fishermen returned to the docks. Children rode bikes along rebuilt sidewalks. The grocery store, though smaller and missing a wall of canned goods, reopened with a hand-painted sign above it: We're still here.
Reconstruction was slow, but steady—one nail, one beam, one memory at a time.
And in the heart of the quiet recovery stood a small, weathered cottage—David's grandmother's house—rebuilt from its bones.
He hadn't planned to stay.
Storm chasers didn't settle. They moved from chaos to chaos, like moths to lightning.
But something about the way Amelia laughed when the rain hit the windows… something about the way she said our porch... something about her presence in the aftermath—gentle, rooted—made staying feel like a form of bravery.
---
Amelia stood barefoot on the new porch, sipping coffee, wrapped in David's flannel.
The sky had shifted again—this time without violence. Just light drifting through the clouds like hope coming home.
David joined her, placing a kiss on her temple. "You'll be late to your interview."
She smiled. "I'm the only journalist in town. I think I'll be okay."
She was going back to writing—this time, not just stories of war zones and corruption. But of people. Of recovery. Of storms that didn't make the headlines, but changed everything.
"I wrote the final lines last night," she said softly. "About us."
David raised a brow. "Oh?"
"I wrote that storms don't just destroy. They reveal."
He nodded, looking out over the quiet street. "They do."
They watched a boy ride by on a bicycle too big for him, balancing a bag of tools.
"Remember when we thought this was the end?" she asked.
"I remember thinking it might be the beginning," he replied.
A long pause.
"You still chasing storms?" she asked.
"Only the ones that come with you."
She chuckled. "You're getting better at this romance thing."
He took her hand, intertwined his fingers with hers.
"I'm getting better at staying," he said.
---
That night, David pulled out an old radio from storage and played it on the porch. Jazz crackled softly through the static.
They danced under strings of lights, barefoot and imperfect.
Amelia leaned her head on his shoulder. "You know," she murmured, "I used to think love was supposed to be calm. Predictable. Safe."
"And now?"
"Now I think… the right kind of storm teaches you how to rebuild without fear."
David nodded. "And what we have?"
She smiled up at him.
"It's not the calm after the storm—it's the calm we chose to build inside it."
---
One year later.
The town held its annual Founders Day for the first time since the disaster. Booths lined the main street. Kids painted on sidewalks. A local band played near the dock.
David stood behind a table of framed photographs—images he took before and after the storm. The mayor shook his hand. A reporter asked about his "unexpected retirement."
"I still chase storms," he said. "Just different ones."
A few yards away, Amelia stood with a stack of her books, signing copies for readers. On the cover: a photo of the wrecked diner, a sliver of sunrise breaking through the debris.
TITLE: THE STORM BEFORE THE CALM- A LOVE LETTER TO THE ONES WHO STAYED
BYLINE: AMELIA WREN
A young girl approached the table, eyes wide. "Is it a true story?"
Amelia smiled. "Every word."
---
As the sun dipped into the sea, casting golden light over the tents, David joined her.
"I think we made it," he said.
She nodded. "I think we're just beginning."
They looked at the sea.
The wind stirred—gentle this time.
---
"Sometimes, the fiercest storms are the ones we survive within ourselves. But in the wreckage, if we're lucky, we find something worth rebuilding..In the name of love."