Maybe they're right. Maybe the walls I've built aren't keeping anyone safe—just keeping me alone.
I open the journal again, turning to a page near the end. The entries here are shorter, more fragmented. My mother's handwriting is shakier, the lines less elegant. The dates are from early 1999—just months before she died.
I dreamed about the garden last night, one entry reads.I was planting roses, and Misha was helping me, and the sun was warm, and for a moment I forgot what we are. What this family does. I woke up crying.
I want so much more for my children. I want them to know peace, to know love that doesn't come wrapped in blood. But I don't know how to give them that. I don't know if it's possible, in this life.
All I can do is plant my garden and hope. Hope that something beautiful survives.
I close the journal.
My mother hoped for peace. For love. For something better than blood and violence.
She got a bullet instead, on a roadside, seventeen years ago.
But her garden is still here. Neglected, dying, but not dead. And Bianca is trying to bring it back—planting seeds, tending ferns, creating something beautiful in the middle of something terrible.
I stand and walk to the window. From here I can see the greenhouse at the edge of the property, half-hidden by overgrown hedges. There's a light on inside—a lantern, glowing faintly through the grimy glass.
Bianca. Still working, even at this hour. Still refusing to give up.
I watch the light for a long time, the journal heavy in my pocket, my mother's words heavy in my chest.
She found something I buried a long time ago, I think.I'm not sure yet if I should thank her or fear her for it.
Maybe both.
Maybe that's what it means to let someone in.
Chapter 11 - Bianca
I wake to sunlight.
It takes me a moment to understand why that feels significant. Then I realize—it's the first time since I arrived that I haven't woken to gray skies and oppressive clouds. The light streaming through the tall windows is golden, warm, painting the blue silk of my bedding in shades of honey and amber.
I lie still for a moment, cataloging how I feel. The crushing weight that pressed me into the mattress yesterday has eased slightly. Not gone—I don't think it will ever be fully gone—but manageable. I have a project now. I have information. I have, if not control, at least the shape of it.
It's enough to get me out of bed.
I dress in practical clothes—dark pants, a soft gray sweater, the flat shoes I can move in. My hair goes into a braid this time, tight and out of my face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back. She looks harder than the girl who studied cardiac pathology a week ago. Sharper around the edges.
Good. Sharp edges are useful.
I take breakfast in the kitchen instead of my room.
It's a small rebellion, but it feels important. The kitchen is vast—industrial stoves, copper pots hanging from iron racks, a long wooden table that could seat twenty. Mrs. Novak is there when I enter, supervising a younger woman I haven't seen before.
"Bianca." She looks surprised but not displeased. "I was about to bring a tray to your room."
"I thought I'd come down instead. If that's all right."
"Of course." She gestures to the table. "Sit. I'll have something prepared."
I sit. The younger woman—a kitchen maid, I assume—glances at me with ill-concealed curiosity before Mrs. Novak sends her off with a pointed look. Then it's just the two of us, and the sounds of food being prepared.
"I wanted to ask you something," I say.
"Yes?"
