It happened in an instant—one of those moments that changes everything.
I was at the kitchen sink, letting warm water run over the dishes, humming to myself. My children, Liam and Nora, were next door in the playroom. It was a calm, ordinary day—until it wasn’t.
The water came in silently. Not with a crash or roar, but with a slow, creeping presence. I turned and saw it sliding across the floor tiles, rising steadily. Within moments, it was knee-deep. I moved quickly toward the door, but the power cut out. The lights flickered once, then failed. The front door was stuck—sealed shut by the pressure of the water. My phone wasn’t working. We were trapped.
I ran to get my children. I grabbed them both and rushed upstairs. They were scared, but quiet. I tried to stay calm as the storm raged outside and the water continued to rise.
Then came a knock—more of a pounding, urgent and heavy. Not on the door, but on the window.
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