The Cards You're Dealt

"Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations." — Zig Ziglar

Platform 13 of Hamburg Central Station shimmered like a private catwalk for the polished elite. Businessmen in tailored suits flicked glances at their Rolexes; women walked like they belonged in perfume ads, heels clicking with military precision. Even the soldiers waiting on orders looked like they’d stepped off a recruitment poster—clean, composed, commanding.

But Annie turned heads like no one else.

She stood still, poised at the platform’s edge in a scarlet sheath dress that hugged her like a whispered secret. Her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek tail, caught the light as she tilted her chin just slightly—just enough. A matching designer suitcase stood beside her like a loyal accessory.

She didn’t look around. She didn’t need to. She felt their eyes like warmth on her skin—admiring, envious, hungry. Up on the balconies overlooking the platforms, faces leaned over the railings. To her, they might as well have been a crowd of paparazzi. She had learned to walk like a woman worth watching.

Then the screaming started.

It came from behind, raw and out of place—too primal for a place so civilized. She turned, confusion puckering her brow. And then the crowd buckled. People dropped as if struck by an invisible force.

But it wasn't invisible. It was a woman. A blur of hair and steel. Knife flashing.

She was slicing through the crowd like a brush fire—erratic, screaming, blood spraying the concrete like some macabre modern art. A woman in heels went down first, hands to her belly. Then a man clutched his throat and stumbled into a bench.

Annie didn’t move.

She couldn’t. Her heels were anchors. Her breath stuck in her throat like gum.

And then—the woman was on her.

A blur of motion, a silver arc—and white-hot agony tore through her cheek. Annie dropped, clutching her face as warmth flooded her palm. A scream broke loose from deep in her gut, high and animal. She didn’t see the woman go down, only heard the thuds on the platform as bodies collided nearby—heard a roar and a grunt. Someone tackled the attacker—someone else, shouting in a language she didn’t understand, held her down.

Annie just knelt there. Bleeding. Watching her own red drip between the cracks in the concrete like she was draining into the earth.

One Year Later

She woke in the dark, gasping.

The dream clung to her skin like oil—the screaming, the blood, the pain. Her pillow was damp. Her scar itched. Or maybe it was phantom pain. Her fingers found it automatically, tracing the angry ridge that cut across her cheek like a signature she’d never asked for.

She turned on the bathroom light. The mirror didn’t flinch, though she did.

The scar gleamed under fluorescent light—a line of tissue, pale and ridged, cutting diagonally like an accusation.

“Ugly,” she whispered. Not to the mirror. To herself.

The word echoed, loud in her mind, louder than her therapist’s pep talks or her mother’s soft tears. Those only made it worse, like being told to swim while your arms were still broken.

Her father’s voice came back to her then, uninvited:

“Beauty fades. Secure something permanent before it does.”

She had rolled her eyes back then, furious at the cynicism. But now? Now she wasn’t sure if he’d been cruel or just honest.

She hadn’t secured anything. Not love. Not work. Not even herself.

Six Months Since the Firing

Her manager had called it a “restructure.” But she knew the truth. The clients didn’t respond to her anymore. Confidence was half the sale. And her confidence had been surgically removed by a stranger with a kitchen knife.

She lived in her mother’s apartment now. Too old to start over, too ashamed to fight.

The pity was the worst. Her mother’s teary eyes. The way people flinched when they looked too long. The way they'd try to cover it with kindness. She didn’t want comfort. She wanted someone to tell her what to do.

So she went back to the last person who ever had.

The Door

The old house smelled like wood polish and memories.

She saw him through the glass—older, grayer, but unmistakable. Still straight-backed, still watchful. He opened the door before she could knock a second time.

His eyes flicked to her scar, then back to her eyes.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said.

She flinched.

Beautiful?

He waved her inside like it was nothing. She took off her shoes like a child returning home. In the kitchen, he made tea with practiced movements. Green for her. Coffee for him.

“Come,” he said and led her to the old brown couch.

She sat. Her hands trembled.

“Daddy…” she began. Her throat closed. And then the tears came—faster than she expected. She buried her face in her hands.

He didn’t speak. Just pulled her in and held her like he’d been waiting for it. When she was empty, he leaned back in his chair.

“Your room’s still yours. But you need a plan.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “What plan? I'm ruined. You saw my face.”

“I saw my daughter. Still beautiful.”

“Don't lie to me.”

He shook his head, calm and clear.

“It’s not a lie. Your looks were never the source of your power. You just thought they were. Your kindness, your sharpness, your fire—that’s what made people follow you. And that scar? It didn’t steal those things. It just made you forget you had them.”

She stared at him. He leaned forward.

“You were playing with the queen of hearts and thought you’d lost the game when you dropped it. But sweetheart, you’ve still got the ace. And that’s in here.” He tapped his temple, then his chest.

A small laugh escaped her.

“A pirate captain, maybe?” he added with a grin. “Scar and all.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. “Not exactly the career path I imagined.”

“Then imagine a better one. And build it. People see what you show them. You walk in ashamed, they pity you. You walk in owning the scar—they admire you.”

A beat of silence.

“Why did I hate you for so long?” she whispered.

He took a sip of coffee.

“Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you just borrowed someone else’s anger before you learned what yours really was.”

Annie looked down at her tea, at her hands—steady now.

“So,” he said, setting his mug aside. “What’s your plan?”

She looked up, and for the first time in months, her eyes were steady.

“First, I’m getting a job. I’ll sell adventure cruises if I have to—maybe in St. Pauli. Who better than a scarred pirate queen?”

He laughed. She laughed too. And for a moment, the weight slipped from her shoulders like an old coat.

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NOTES: Based in part on the recent knife attack in Hamburg and told from the perspective of a victim recovering from the trauma.