Morning didn’t come with sound, only light, soft and golden through the linen curtains. It brushed her cheeks like a whisper, but Ivy didn’t stir. Her body woke before her mind, stretching without direction, her hands curling loosely over the sheets.
She hadn’t dreamed. Or maybe she had, and the dreams were so quiet she mistook them for death.
Her eyes opened. The ceiling above her was ivory with delicate carvings. A room meant to soothe.
But Ivy had begun to understand something ugly,
Even comfort could be a kind of violence.
She sat up slowly.
The breakfast tray was already placed near the window, steaming gently. Eggs. Toast. Fruit cut into perfect shapes. She hadn’t heard anyone come in.
They moved around her now like she was something sacred, or untouchable.
Her robe lay folded on the end of the bed. Next to it, a dress she hadn’t picked: pale yellow with thin straps and a fitted waist, the color of springtime and submission.
She stared at it. Then she got up, undressed, and step
