Morning rain drizzled against the windows as Lira followed the Whitmores through the
house. Each room was a lesson in meticulous design. Hardwood floors, polished surfaces, the faint hum of a heater, subtle scents of citrus and lavender drifting through the air.
"This is the study," the wife said, gesturing
toward a room with shelves and a desk.
"This will be your workspace."
On the desk sat a tablet, glowing softly.
"It has apps for notes, schedules, and
journaling," the wife said.
"Everything you
need."
"It's mine?" Lira asked, touching the smooth
screen.
"Exactly," the husband said.
"Safe, secure, and
just for you."
The house tour continued slowly: kitchen,
laundry room, guest bathrooms, closets. Every detail: cabinet handles, textures of towels, faint creak of floorboards. Locked doors hinted at
areas forbidden to her.
Basement stairs loomed like shadows, a silent warning.
In the study, she opened the diary app:
"Day two. The house is beautiful… maybe too beautiful. Cameras everywhere, locked doors, rules disguised as kindness. The tablet is mine. Maybe it's enough for now."
She lingered over the screen, unaware this
device would soon be her only ally.