Technically, my brain stores everything it processes, but I utter those two words to myself when I want them to remain in my active memory, instead of stored to only be recalled when the topic presents itself.
This ability has been both a blessing and a curse. I never forget a chess move, a conversation, a pattern. But I also never forget the pain in my mother’s eyes when she speaks of the facility where she grew up—Riverton—or the too close soundsof Enforcers’ boots on our street that forced my father to build the hatch when I was seven.
I reach for my notebook, hidden between the mattress and wall. It’s not that I need to write things down to remember them—I don’t—but there’s something satisfying about creating a physical record of the things I find most interesting. I enjoy knowing that even when I’m gone, unknown by the entire world outside the three people in my family, there will be a piece of me left here.
It makes me feel like my existence isn’t completely worthless.
The notebook is worn, its pages filled with my small, neat handwriting documenting lost things from the past. I add a new entry:
Movie theater. Large public building where people watched films on screens as big as walls. Strangers sat together in darkness, sharing the experience collectively. Imagine our television, but twenty times larger. Everyone could attend, regardless of gender or status. Admission price was small. Early versions opened in the 1900s and lasted until the Collapse.
My fingers run along the indented words, my mind wondering what it would be like to sit in such a place, surrounded by others as we all focus on the same story.
To exist without fear.
The door creaks open, and I slide the notebook back into hiding with practiced speed. But it’s only Lachlan, brunette hair damp and mussed.
“Still awake?” he asks in a quiet voice, dropping onto his own bed. The frame squeaks beneath his weight.
“Just reading.” I gesture to the book, tapping the edge.
He nods, watching me with careful attention, a habit I hate he’s formed. “How are you doing, Cass? We haven’t talked in a bit, with how busy work is.”
The question lingers between us, heavier than its simple words suggest. He asks this often, especially after returning from his travels—as if checking whether my confinement has finally broken me in his absence.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, offering the automatic response. Then, because it’s Lachlan and he deserves more, I add, “Restless. Curious. The usual.”
He smiles, the expression so similar to my own it’s like looking in a mirror. We share the same dark hair, though his rests just below his shoulders while mine falls to waist-level. The same observant eyes and pointed chin. If I cut my hair and wore his clothes, we’d be nearly indistinguishable—a fact that has crossed my mind more than once over the years.
“Brought you something.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small package wrapped in cloth.
My heart lifts along with my brows. This is our ritual—Lachlan bringing back small treasures from his trips, tangible pieces of the world I cannot see. I’ve never been able to truly express just how much these little gifts mean to me.
I unwrap it carefully. Inside is a small, carved figure of a mountain cat, its body graceful even in stillness. The wood is dark and smooth. Polished by experienced hands.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, fingers caressing the soft curves.
“Made by a craftsman in Ailridge. Said the mountain cats used to roam freely through the terrain before the Syndicate’s hunting parties decimated them.” His voice drops lower. “They’re making a comeback, though. Breeding in the high valleys where Enforcers don’t patrol.”
I understand the subtle subtext: nature finding a way despite oppression. Life persisting in hidden places. Something that made Lachlan think of his sister.
A small smile graces my face in offering. “Thank you,” I say, placing the figure on my small shelf alongside theother gifts he’s brought me over the years—a polished stone from a river in Ofin, a tiny glass vial of red sand from the deserts of Belken, a dried flower from Vinford.
My collection of the mysterious world.
Lachlan yawns, stretching his long frame. “I should sleep. The journey back was long.”
“Of course,” I reply, adjusting my position to something more comfortable. “Thanks again for the cat.” He nods, already drifting away beneath his blanket. Within minutes, his breathing deepens and slows.
I watch him for a moment, this brother who is my mirror and my shield. Without him, I would have been confiscated at birth like all female infants—removed from my mother’s arms and shipped to a breeding facility, raised to accept submission as natural. I would either be breeding stock by now, bearing children for the greater order of the Syndicate, or some man’s property, used for whatever he desires.
Instead, I snuck into this world undetected as my mother birthed only a son before the midwives could arrive, according to the official records. And I’m still here. Hidden. Free, in a limited sense.
Alive in ways other women could never hope to be.
It’s a blessing I try never to take for granted; I know just how lucky I am.And yet…
Sometimes I hate myself for the restlessness that gnaws at me; the selfish desire to see more, do more, be more. My mother and father have sacrificed everything to keep me safe. Even Lachlan has given much of himself for my welfare. I should be grateful for the small freedoms I have—to read, learn, and exist without a man’s ownership.
