I had the strangest want.
To stand underneath a sky that can’t make up its mind. Spring trees on one side with that fresh, almost embarrassingly hopeful green, the kind that looks like it’s trying too hard and somehow gets away with it.
Autumn trees on the other, gold and rust and red, that gorgeous, inevitable burn of something at its most beautiful right before it lets go.
Both at once, overhead.
Impossible.
The kind of thing that can’t exist anywhere outside of a dream or a painting or the specific madness of wanting something with no logical basis whatsoever.
But God, imagine looking up.
8
SOPHIA
The first night he’s gone, I don’t sleep.
The second night, I do.
By the third, the silence has weight.
It settles into the beams and walls like it belongs here, like this house has always been quiet and I’ve simply stepped into the middle of it. The threat of him lingers at first—his shadow on the stairs, the way his voice seemed to sit in the air long after he left—but nothing happens.
No footsteps above me. No doors opening. No shift in the floorboards. Just wind across the mountains and the low hum of heat moving through vents.
Hunger finds me before courage does. By the second morning, my stomach twists hard enough to make thinking difficult. I stand in the kitchen too long, staring at the refrigerator like it might accuse me of something. I’ve only taken water out of it until now. Eating feels like surrender. Like accepting the rules of a place I didn’t choose. But survival has never cared about pride.
I open the fridge.
It’s stocked the same way the pantry is—deliberate, thoughtful, but I don’t let myself think about that for too long.
I grab two eggs from the carton and crack them against the rim of a bowl, the shells splitting cleanly. A fork appears in my hand without memory of reaching for it, and I whisk them until the yolks bleed into the whites, turning everything the same muted yellow.
The pan heats quickly, and I pour the mixture in, watch it spread, thin at first, then thickening as I drag the spatula through it. Soft folds form. Steam curls upward, carrying the simple scent of salt and butter.
The first few bites taste like nothing. By the fourth, I realize my hands aren’t shaking anymore. And once I’m done, I remember what it feels like to not have a stomach that’s hollow.
I clean my dishes because order compels me. If I let them sit, it means I’ve settled, and I’m not ready to admit that to myself yet.
After placing everything back into their spot, it doesn’t look like I’ve touched the kitchen, a small victory from a giant lie.
I eat again that evening. Fruit, because it’s easier—no heat, no waiting, no small domestic ritual that makes this place feel lived in. Just a knife, a cutting board, and something clean and bright I can swallow without thinking too much about where I am.
On the third morning, I test the front door again, as if it somehow magically opened overnight while I was sleeping. Of course, it’s still locked, and I’m still trapped.
By the fourth day, I’m pacing aimlessly, and that’s when it hits me—the thing I didn’t expect.
Boredom.
It unsettles me more than the panic ever did. I should be plotting. Planning. Counting seconds, memorizing the layout, cataloging exits. Instead, the hours stretch wide and empty, and I don’t know what to do with them. Fear at least has a shape. Boredom is just formless time pressing against you from every direction, and it turns out I am very bad at being still.
The kitchen draws me back again, not with hunger this time, but with restlessness.
There’s flour in the pantry. Yeast tucked neatly in a glass jar. Salt. Olive oil. The ingredients line up like an invitation, and I stand there looking at them for a long moment before I reach for the flour.
Bread will take time. Time feels safer than silence.
