He sat in the center of the room on a low floor couch, a small table set before him with his notebooks stacked in careful order. Behind him stood a narrow bed and a lamp beside shelves filled with books. To his right were the washroom and the kitchen. To his left was the only door. A camera watched from each corner. In front of him, a large screen waited to begin his lessons in history, technology, and science.
He didn't know why he was here. The thought returned each day, steady and uninvited. Why was he alone inside a square room?
Before the lessons began, his morning followed the same ritual. He listened for the first drop of water from the faucet. Then the next. He counted until the tenth. That was how he measured time. That was how he knew the day had started.
The water began to drip.
He drew in a slow breath and counted in silence, tapping his fingers against the wooden table with each drop. The wood was smooth from years of use. He waited, tense, the sound echoing too loudly in the stillness. When the tenth drop fell, he let the air leave his lungs. It was time.
The screen flickered to life, filled with soft white noise like an old signal struggling to hold. Then a woman's voice spoke.
"How was your sleep, Cell number 4?"
He froze.
The name echoed in his mind. Cell number 4. It never felt like his. It sounded like something written on a door. He lowered his gaze to the table and felt his heartbeat thud, slow and heavy against his ribs.
He did not answer at once.
The voice asked again.
He lifted his head. His throat felt tight as he spoke.
"Everything is good, Mother."
She moved on without pause and announced the next lesson. History. The title appeared on the screen. After the Forgotten Millennium.
He turned the page of his book. The paper brushed against his fingertips. He followed along as he always did, listening, absorbing, memorizing. Yet his thoughts began to drift.
What was the purpose of learning, he wondered, if he could never step outside and use what he knew?
His focus slipped. His pen traced small circles across the margin of his notebook, over and over, until the paper grew thin beneath the ink. The lesson continued, but his mind did not.
In the middle of the lecture, Mother spoke again.
"You are distant."
His lips parted. The usual reply rose to the surface, empty and practiced. He almost gave it. The words hovered there, ready to fall.
He stopped.
The questions he had carried for as long as he could remember pressed forward. He swallowed. Instead of answering, he asked.
"Mother, may I leave and use everything you have taught me in the world outside?"
His hand tightened against his thigh. His nails pressed into the fabric of his clothes, then into his skin. For the first time, he had said it aloud. The words felt strange and sharp in his mouth, but once spoken, they could not be taken back. The tight weight that had sat in his chest for years loosened, just a little.
He closed his eyes and waited.
The room fell silent. Only the soft hiss of white noise lingered in the air.
When the reply came, it was cold and steady, like a recording that had been waiting for its cue.
"In due time, you will."
His eyes widened.
A sharp ringing filled his ears and drowned out everything else. Heat rushed to his face until his skin felt tight. A vein pulsed at his temple. He stared at the screen, chest rising too fast, each breath shallow and thin.
Something inside him broke.
A scream tore from his throat. He shot to his feet, his knee striking the edge of the table. Books slid to the floor. He seized the table with both hands and flung it forward. In his mind, it crashed into the screen. Glass shattered. The image split and vanished.
Then the room returned to its usual stillness.
The screen stood untouched. The table was where it had always been. Nothing had moved.
It had only happened in his head.
The weight of it left him weak. Even before the lesson ended, he felt tired. His left hand gripped his right shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle as if to steady himself. His voice came out flat.
"I understand, Mother."
He released his shoulder and let out a slow breath. Cell number 4 could not accept this life. He wanted to leave the small room, yet he did not know how.
A sudden buzz cut through his thoughts. It came from the door.
He turned.
A slot near the floor slid open. A small package slipped through and dropped onto the ground with a dull sound.
"Today's class is moving slowly," Mother said. "We will change it to physical education."
He rose at once and walked toward the door. His steps were careful. His eyes lifted to the handle as he drew near. It was close enough to touch.
He reached down toward the package.
His hand paused.
He wanted to grab the handle instead. His fingers hovered in the air, caught between two choices. His thoughts tangled. What lay beyond the door was unknown. The package was safe. Predictable.
Fear settled in his chest.
His hand trembled as he picked up the package. He chose what he understood.
In the corner of the room, a small red light blinked on the camera.
"Open the package," Mother said.
He tore at the red wrapping. The paper ripped beneath his fingers. Inside was a box. He opened it and found seeds, many kinds, small and dry. They rested in his palm like grains of sand. His hand began to shake.
"What is this for?" he asked. His voice was tight.
"It is a gift," she replied. "Today's physical education lesson is how to grow a tree."
He rubbed his temple and glanced toward the corner where the camera watched him. Then he looked down at the seeds again. They were meant to grow. To reach upward. Yet they lay still in his hand, under constant watch.
A small sound slipped from his throat. It was almost a cry.
"May I be excused from today's lesson?"
Silence followed. The air felt heavy.
"You may."
The screen went dark.
He stood alone, staring at the floor. A quiet thought settled over him. His life was passing, day after day, inside these four walls.
At last, he turned toward the bed. His steps were slow, unsteady. He lay down and pulled the sheets over his head, shutting out the room.
For a moment, there was only darkness and the sound of his own breathing.
His head sank into the pillow. His eyes began to close.
Sleep edged closer.
Then his body jerked. His eyes snapped open, wide and startled, as if he had fallen from a height.
He knew it would happen again tomorrow. And the day after that. Nothing would change.
The thought hollowed him. Each day wore him down a little more. His hope thinned, stretched until it felt like a thread about to snap. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and soaked into the pillow. A quiet fear settled in him. One day, his mind would grow tired. One day, his body would stop resisting. One day, he would accept this life.
He could not let that happen.
He had to act before it did.
For days he had turned over plans in his head. Desperation forced him to study every inch of the room. He imagined smashing the cameras. He imagined running straight through the exit without stopping. Each plan collapsed before it began. In his thoughts, every attempt ended with him dragged back to the center of the room, defeated before he ever touched the door.
He lifted the sheet just enough to see.
The bathroom door was open. Inside, above the toilet, a small ventilation opening sat in the wall. He had noticed it before, but never like this. It looked narrow, yet possible. Wide enough, perhaps, if he forced himself through.
His right hand curled into a fist. The idea of freedom made his pulse race. When he opened his fingers, they trembled. He caught his hand with the other and held it still.
At that moment, he chose.
Tonight, he would try to escape.
The room felt quiet, as if it were waiting.
He lay back and listened for the night. Night always came with the lullaby.
Darkness settled across the walls. The music began, soft and gentle. He kept his eyes closed and counted the notes, waiting for it to finish. Yet the melody stretched on. It seemed longer than usual, each note dragging into the next.
Time felt wrong. It bent and twisted inside his head.
"Faster," he whispered. His throat was dry. "Faster."
At last, the song ended.
He threw the sheet off and turned his head.
An owl stood inches from his face.
Its eyes were fixed on him. Its body did not move. It did not blink. It did not breathe. Only its head turned, slow and steady. The tilt went too far. It should have stopped. Bone should have resisted.
It did not.
The head kept turning, past what was natural, past what was possible, until it faced him again from an angle that made his skin crawl.
His breathing grew shallow. His chest barely rose. His gaze dropped along the length of its body. It seemed taller than it should be. Too long. Its feathers lay flat and still.
The eyes did not reflect him. They gave nothing back.
A low hoot rolled from its throat. The sound echoed in the room and did not fade.
Something cold tightened in his stomach. He screamed, not from pain but from anger and confusion. The world had stopped making sense, and he could not bear it.
"What are you?" he asked. His voice felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
He forced himself to believe it was another break in his mind. Another illusion.
The screen flickered on.
White noise filled the room again, but it sounded rough, uneven.
When the voice spoke, it was wrong. It carried a note that did not belong.
"Silly you," she said. "I am Mother."