In the quiet, I run the numbers. I wonder what my father would think of this—his only daughter, marooned in a fortress built for her containment, incubating the next phase of a dynasty that refuses to consider her their equal.
I picture his face, the ridge of his brow, the cruel slant of his mouth when he said, "You're not built for peace, girl. Learn to survive the aftermath."
I open my eyes.
Lena is still there, hands in pockets, gaze flicking between me and the empty expanse of lawn.
She's better than most—less likely to report every tremor, more likely to cover for a girl who walks too long in the rain.
I give her a look, the closest I come to gratitude, and she nods once as if to say,You're not invisible. I see you.
When I tire of the pretense of freedom, I retrace my steps to the house.
Lena holds the door and follows, her expression neutral.
We climb the stairs, passing the corridor guard who pretends not to notice our return.
In my room, I peel off the boots, then kneel by the radiator, where a single floorboard is slightly warped.
I pry it up with a fingernail.
Inside—a small pouch with emergency cash, a half-used burner phone, a battered medical kit with three sealed bandages and a bottle of expired antibiotics.
I count the bills, check the phone for battery, then replace everything exactly as before.
The contingency is pathetic, but it is mine.
I spend the next hour at the desk, updating the notebook.
I mark the new patrol schedule—slightly altered, probably in response to my perimeter walk. I add a note about the change in the guard's paperback (today, a lurid true crime).
I list the breakfast menu, the weather, the shift in Lena's posture from wary to resigned.
Then I tuck the notebook under the mattress and lie down, hands folded across my stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I let myself drift for a while, not quite sleep, not quite wakefulness.
In the half-dream, I see the children—small, perfect, unbruised by history.
I see the city beyond the garden, alive with the noise and ruin of a world that refuses to die.
I wake to the sound of Lena's knock and know I have to do it all again tomorrow.
The next day, there is a new delivery, which I learn viaLena.
She does it without words, just a tilt of her head as I pass her at the base of the service stairs, the way her eyes flick to the loading bay and then away, as if she is scanning for threats on every axis.
I'm not meant to overhear, but I do—three of the kitchen staff clustered by the door, voices lowered, one of them saying, "He's not the usual," and another, "New muscle, maybe?"
The loading bay smells like diesel and old sweat, cut with the ghost of bleach from the morning mop.
I stand to the side, pretending to examine a clipboard, but really, I'm watching the man in the vendor jacket as he hoists sacks of flour from the van.
He is taller than the last, hair shaved to the scalp, neck thick enough that the collar rides high and looks like it's choking him.
He moves with the forced deliberation of someone who knows he is being watched.
Every so often, his eyes flick up, never quite meeting mine but cataloguing all the same.
