Days turn into weeks.
I help Emily dress, brush her dark hair, organize her books. In the library, dust coats ancient knowledge no one has touched in decades. In her room, silence becomes our shared language.
She is kind. Gentle. Strong in ways the North refuses to see.
One night, after a month of routine, she finally speaks.
"You're different," she says softly. "I want to trust you."
She tells me everything—about the insults disguised as jokes, the loneliness, the way the walls close in tighter every day.
I listen until her breathing evens out and sleep claims her.
I sit beside her bed long after.
There is still hope for her.
For me?
My hope died the night my family chose power over love.
And the North has no idea what it has just allowed inside its walls.