The sun had barely broken over the horizon when Alina made her way to the old village well. The morning air was cold, biting against her skin, but she didn't rush. She moved with the same quiet, measured pace she always had. Her bare feet pressed against the damp earth, and the faint smell of smoke from distant cooking fires drifted through the air.
The well stood on the edge of the clearing, its wooden frame worn smooth from years of use. Alina set the empty buckets down, resting her hands on the rope. Her reflection swayed in the dark water below. She stared at it for a moment, her expression unreadable.
Sometimes she spoke to that reflection. Not loudly, just in a murmur that never carried far.
"It's just another day," she told herself, almost as if the water was listening.
It was a habit she'd kept for years, a way to keep her thoughts company when no one else would.
She lowered the bucket, listening to the rope creak as it unraveled. Water splashed faintly below. As she hauled it back up, her mind wandered—not to the chores that waited, but to the years behind her. Years of silence, of knowing her place.
By evening, the table was full, but not for her. She moved between the kitchen and the main room, setting down bowls of steaming stew and plates of root vegetables. No one thanked her, and she expected none.
When everyone began to eat, she stayed behind, hovering near the doorway until the first clatter of spoons gave her permission to retreat. Only then did she take her own plate to the kitchen. She ate alone, cross-legged on the cool floor, the flicker of the lantern casting long shadows across the walls.
It didn't bother her anymore—the solitude. Not in the way it once had. Loneliness had long ago settled into something quieter, something almost familiar.
Still, her thoughts drifted to her father. She could almost hear his voice, deep and warm, telling her stories in the dark. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory linger. But it always ended the same way—silence.
After the meal, her family left the table as they always did, pushing their bowls aside and rising without a glance. Her mother, Giselle, laughed softly at something Charlie said. Her grandmother, Mildred, brushed the boy's hair back with a tenderness Alina had never felt from her.
Alina waited until their voices faded into the next room before stepping forward. She stacked the dirty dishes, cleared the scraps, wiped the table until it shone. Then came the sweeping, the rearranging of chairs, the quiet setting of the room back to order.
It was always like this.
Before bed, she moved from room to room, extinguishing the lanterns one by one. The house grew darker with each breath of flame snuffed out, shadows creeping along the bamboo walls. She checked the windows, the door, the latch on the back storage shed.
Only when everything was done did she retreat to the small corner she called hers. The washbasin water was cold, but she didn't flinch. She dried her arms and face with the edge of her blanket before lying down on the thin mat.
Sleep did not come quickly. It never did. The quiet wasn't truly quiet—not to her. She could hear the creak of wood settling, the faint rustle of leaves outside, the whisper of the wind pushing against the house. She could picture the rooms in her mind, every object in its place, as if her senses stretched beyond the walls. She thought it was normal, so she stayed still, waiting for the heaviness of sleep to finally take her.
The days blurred Into each other. Draw water. Tend the small garden. Sweep the yard. Cook, serve, clean.
On Monday, the routine shifted slightly. Charlie had school. She woke him early, helping him dress in the uniform Giselle had laid out the night before. She combed his hair carefully, set his breakfast in front of him, and waited while he ate.
Charlie was different. Not like the others. He didn't speak down to her. In secret, he had taught her to read the letters in his schoolbooks, to count coins, to trace words with a piece of charcoal on scrap paper.
"You're smarter than they think," he once told her. She had smiled at that, a small, private smile meant only for him.
She walked him to the path that led toward the school, watching until he disappeared beyond the bend.
It was Tuesday, and the air hung strangely still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Droplets slid down from the ends of Alina's hair, damp strands clinging to the sides of her neck. She slipped into her worn dress, its coarse fabric brushing against her skin, and tightened the cord at her waist. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a deep orange glow across the small room, painting the walls in fading light.
The warmth from her bath still lingered on her skin, mingling with the faint scent of soap and the smoky trace of the kitchen fire. She reached for her satchel, the familiar weight settling in her hands. Charlie's school would be letting out soon, and she needed to leave before the shadows grew long.
"Alina."
The voice came from behind her, low and deliberate. She froze for a heartbeat before turning.
Her uncle Matthew stood in the doorway, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. A shadow stretched long across the floor between them. Without another word, he tilted his head toward the barn.
She hesitated, the strap of her satchel slipping from her fingers. But he was already stepping aside, waiting for her to pass.
The barn was dim, lit only by the thin slivers of sunlight seeping through the gaps in the boards. Jack, her horse, shifted in his stall, his ears flicking toward her. The air was thick with the scent of hay and something heavier—something she couldn't name.
Matthew closed the door behind them. The latch clicked into place.
"Going to pick up Charlie?" His tone was almost casual.
She nodded. "I need to go now." He stepped closer. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist tightly. His fingers dug into her skin, sending a sharp sting up her arm.
"What about your job to me?"
Alina's chest tightened. She hated it when he touched her. She hated the way the air around him always felt heavier. Every time he called her, it was the same: unease in her stomach, a creeping urge to run. But this time, something else stirred—something deep and raw, clawing at the edges of her mind.
Her breathing quickened. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Somewhere above, the lightbulb flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then a sharp crack split the air as its glass casing fractured. The walls seemed to hum. Nails rattled in their wooden beams.
"What the—" Matthew's voice cut short as the tools hanging on the walls trembled, then swayed violently. In a blink, every pane of glass—windows, lantern covers, the bulb above—shattered, raining shards to the floor.
The horse whined and stomped nervously in his stall.
Matthew's grip slackened. His eyes, wide now, darted between the wreckage and Alina. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came.
He took a step back. Then another. And without another glance, he turned and bolted from the barn.
Alina's knees felt weak. Her chest heaved as though she had been running for miles. Sweat slid down her back, sticking the fabric of her dress to her skin.
What just happened?
She forced herself to breathe—slow, deep, steady. But the tremor in her hands betrayed her calm.
Charlie.
The thought snapped her back. Without another second's pause, she ran. The sky was bruising into twilight as she made her way down the dirt path toward the school, her feet pounding the ground in rhythm with her heartbeat.
But when she arrived, the yard was empty. The building loomed dark, its windows catching the last of the fading light. She searched every corner. Every bench. Every room she could access. No sign of him. By the time the church bell rang seven times in the distance, panic was clawing up her throat. She had to go home.
Her legs felt like lead as she approached the house. Light spilled from the windows, warm and bright, but it offered no comfort.
The moment she pushed the door open, the warmth shattered.
A hand met her cheek with a sharp crack. The force sent her stumbling to the floor, her palms slapping hard against the boards.
"How could you leave him there?" Her mother's voice was venom. Giselle's face was twisted with rage, eyes bright and wet. "What were you thinking? He could have been in danger!"
Alina's ears rang from the blow. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, the heat blooming on her cheek making it hard to focus.
"W-Where's… Charlie?" she managed to whisper.
Her aunt, Sarah scoffed. "I can't believe you left him alone. Good thing my son, Philip was there."
Across the room, Philip leaned against the wall, arms folded. His grin was smug. "If I wasn't there, who knows what could have happened to Charlie?"
"For Pete's sake, what's wrong with that girl?" Uncle Matthew muttered, shaking his head in irritation.
The words were like thorns. Not because of their meaning, but because of the pride lacing them.
Giselle's lip curled. "You're careless. And you will learn."
Her grandmother's voice followed, calm but cold. "We agreed on this. If you do not follow the rules, there will be consequences." Two sets of hands grabbed her arms. She didn't resist as they dragged her back toward the barn.
The door shut behind her with a final, echoing click of the lock.
And then there was only the dark.