The Performance.

(Paige’s POV)

Disappearance comes first. That idea sits quiet but clear.

Nowhere near real life. Can’t happen. High barriers stand around. Entrances stay shut tight. Openings barely peek through like lies pretending otherwise.

I disappear into the quiet corners of who I am. Inside this body, I grow thin, almost weightless. An empty shape, worn like a mask, where others press their fingers through, sure they touch nothing but old silence.

That morning, once the maid arrives holding the breakfast tray, I do more than look away. My eyes fix on it - empty, drifting. The back of the chair takes the weight as my head tilts loose. Lips hang open, unmoving.

She leans close, a hush in her words. The girl sits still. Food waits on a chipped plate. Her hands rest flat, unmoving. Light fades through cracked blinds. A spoon glints, untouched. Time slows near the bed's edge. Hunger hums low, ignored

Something pulls my gaze where her words come from, yet she isn’t there. Right through her I stare, like air shaped into form. A slow blink breaks the stillness. My face shifts again, facing only brick. Lily. Tendril. Lily. Climb.

Footsteps pause outside the door. A tray touches the table with a quiet ring. Fabric whispers against itself while she turns away.

This is where it begins. The opening moment arrives like that.

By the time Beatrice arrives midday, everything is set. In she comes, swirling like wind through purple fabric, face full of quiet worry. With her walks a slim volume - pages filled with verse, tucked under one arm.

“I thought we might read together, Paige. Something gentle for the soul.”

Suddenly aware of how low I’ve sunk in this seat. Hands just resting now, no energy to move them. Hair fallen across my eyes, left there without care. A shadowy veil that stays put.

She says the name like it might break. A quiet sound, yet somehow slicing through the air.

The stone catches what light remains, just one near the edge of the bricks. Fire flickers past it, always moving, yet that spot stays still. Staring long enough makes everything else blur - walls fade, warmth dulls. The surface looks cold even when heat touches it. Tears rise slow, uninvited, blurring nothing now.

A step nearer, then another. The scent reaches me first - lavender, yes, but underneath it, sharp and cool, the trace of sterilized steel. Light shifts as she blocks it. My skin feels the dark before my eyes do.

“Look at me, dear.”

Breathing stays light. My limbs freeze, though a small shake moves through my fingers - easy to let happen. Cold digs deep. That empty kind of dread? Nothing fake about it.

Down on her knees, she searches for my gaze, hidden beneath a lowered stare. A gentle pressure comes to my chin - her hands are calm, not warm, not damp. Slowly, they nudge upward, asking without words for me to look.

She decides. My neck gives way, stiff and slow, as if strings once pulled it. A glance catches mine. I hold it open, fixed - dark circles blooming inside. Thoughts vanish before they form. Sensation slips through fingers. Just glass now, facing land that holds no shape.

A shadow shifts in her gaze. Not sorrow. A quiet fullness. As if the prey had stopped struggling just when expected.

Here you are, she murmurs - though not kindly. This moment belongs to her, not me. My jaw slips free from her grip, then my face falls forward like a puppet with slackened cords.

One hour she remains, speaking poems out loud with a singing sort of voice. Poems that speak of affection and what it means to let go. Every syllable stings like a pinprick. Still, I hold my ground. Not even a twitch. Deep under currents, I rest like rock, while her lines move past without sinking in.

Once she goes, my hair gets a single stroke. Hers. Claiming it somehow. Sleep is what she wants for me now. Tomorrow we start fresh

The door locks.

One minute passes. Another. Silence sits like dust on skin. Only after ten stretched moments does my body give way - shoulders dropping, breath unsteady. This act takes everything. Pretending to be empty leaves me more tired than any labor could.

But it’s working.

---

Fog creeps through mornings until noon slips away. Stillness hums under cracked pavement. Hours dissolve like salt in rain.

A spoon drops, making noise, after just a few mouthfuls if someone makes me eat. Wet stains spread across my shirt - left there, untouched. Murmurs slip out, aimed at the wall's pattern: broken sounds, pieces of verses she once recited. "My love is... something cold... buried in frost..."

It's important that the cleaning person notices when I speak.

Frozen rooms fill my thoughts now. Not just any room - this one where water rose too high, too fast. A place shaped by cold, trapping her breath like it traps mine. Pretending brokenness comes easier each day. Truth? Only that moment stays sharp. What she felt then - it anchors me more than anything else could.

Walking still happens here, though I’m just a shadow doing it. The gardener doesn’t look away anymore; instead, he stares - first with uneasy interest, then sadness, finally nothing. Belonging to the background now. Like a cracked figure made of stone.

Each day, my feet follow that familiar trail. Not straight ahead - past the thicket where the wind hums low. Beyond the crooked line of willow trunks, bent like old backs. My eyes stay fixed just beside the icehouse, never on it. Scanning patches of damp soil. Hunting traces someone stepped there - any mark in the soft decay.

I see none.

A flicker of hope can burn too bright. So I press it down. What counts is sticking to the steps laid out.

That day, sunlight slants through the window just right. Suddenly, Beatrice shifts how she moves things forward. Gone is the worn poetry book from before. Sitting there instead - a slender wooden case, smooth to look at. Without hurry, she lifts the lid and sets it flat on the tabletop. Nestled in soft blue fabric inside: delicate paintbrushes, pans of dried color, plus thick sheets meant for wet strokes.

“I thought you might express what you can’t say,” she suggests, her voice honeyed. “The visions. Paint them for me. The colors, the shapes. It might be a relief.”

Almost there. Not a pen now, but a brush - same pressure though. Surrender what you carry. Release what moves through you. Her aim? To trace the walls of my mind, sketch the shape of what I foresee, then claim it, hold it under lock.

A fire jumps inside me, sharp and bright. This heat surprises even the quiet face I wear.

From the bright tubes of color, my eyes move to her waiting expression. A small spasm runs through my fingers where they rest. Taking the brush is possible. Offering her something untrue stands as an option. An invented scene might guide her off course.

Not quite. In her role, precision comes naturally. A flaw wouldn’t slip past her. Every detail has to hold firm.

Shakily, though maybe not pretending at all, I stretch one arm forward. Not toward the paintbrush does my hand move. Instead, it finds the small clay bowl holding rinse-water. Fingers close tight around its rim.

After that, just flip it upside down.

Floorboards catch each drop as it falls, slow and steady, after the spill spreads past the edge. Velvet darkens under the wet, its softness now heavy. Paper curls at the edges, stained beyond fixing. A rhythm builds - plink, then silence, plink again.

A smear grows wider. My face shows nothing.

Stillness takes hold of Beatrice. A weight fills the air - her frustration pressing close. Her hands twitch, wanting to clutch my arms tight. Screaming rises inside her, held back just barely.

A sigh escapes, drawn out and quiet. "Fine," she replies, words stiff in her throat. "Maybe this isn’t something you can face yet."

She stands, gathering the ruined box. She pauses at the door. “He’s hosting a ball, you know. At the Wingknight estate. Tonight. Lady Lenora will be his honored guest. The whole city is talking about it.”

The moment passes without a glance behind. There is no reason to check. It closes on its own.

Heavy silence follows each syllable, thicker than smoke. A bitter taste lingers long after they’re spoken.

A round shape rolls through memory. Inside that place, the one he also claimed. Where voices echoed loud during our opening clash. Hallways winding like arguments, where steps matched step by step. High edges jutting out over nothing, where lips met without warning.

There she stands, watching him bring in soft lamps, playing songs on repeat. A stranger moves through the rooms, her voice weaving between notes. Light spills across floors where silence used to live.

A bright scene hits hard, though it should feel warm. Chandeliers burn like fire overhead, loud music filling every corner. There he stands - Noah - in strict black clothing, too striking to ignore. Clean face, eyes the color of dry leaves, moving across people without care. She walks beside him, Lenora Havisham, draped in something soft and glowing, holding tight to his arm. Her smile climbs high, sure she belongs right there.

Could that be him moving with her across the floor? Does his big, steady palm rest just above her waist? Leaning close now, does he tilt his ear toward her voice, strands of black hair touching his forehead?

A gasp escapes before I can stop it. The pretense falters, just briefly. My body folds inward, clutching at my ribs like something cracked beneath the surface. Silence fills the room, heavy and close.

This hurts the most. Locked rooms do not. Tasteless meals do not. What cuts deepest? A flawless image built slowly, showing days unfolding just right - just not with me.

He isn’t coming.

Victory belongs to uncertainty. Through the empty chambers within, it pours - cold, total.

The curtain falls. Right now, nothing plays on stage. Just a girl sits, cracked inside a glittering cage, holding onto the broken bits of her heart, certain she’s vanished from the tale of the man who mattered most.

That night stays wide awake. Into the blackness my eyes fix, catching echoes of a game never played. His laugh comes to mind - deep, uncommon. Picture it aimed far from me.

Faint light climbs in through the tall glass, slow and pale. Me - it meets hollow, scraped clean. All that willpower? Evaporated overnight. What I meant to do now seems made up, something whispered by a kid afraid of dark.

The moment she walks in, the maid sees me lying near the chair. My body is tucked close, resting on one side. Eyes fixed on the table's legs. Not a single muscle shifts as she steps closer. Hardly any air moves through my chest.

A sharp breath escapes her. The tray hits the table, loud. Out the door she goes, quick.

Minutes pass before Beatrice appears. Silence follows her in. Her eyes move across the empty space, the food still sitting there, my body slumped down. A grin creeps up, quiet but sure. That look - like someone closing a book after the last word.

Down on her knees next to me, she leans close. Her voice is soft, but sharp like ice. Not laughing anymore. Only calm certainty fills the air. This moment belongs to her, clear in every breath. Resistance ends here, spoken without shouting. The request comes slow, steady - hand it over now

Something shifts when her palm lands on my scalp. Not gentle. More like marking territory. The weight stays put. No movement. Just presence. Like a sign says she’s decided something.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers. “We’ll try the paints again. And you’ll paint for me. You’ll tell me everything you see. Because there’s nothing left for you out there. Your story, my dear, is right here with me.”

The door shuts behind her, the click of the latch hanging in the air like a period after a sentence that needs no more words.

Floor presses hard into my face, chilly without mercy. Roughness of rock scrapes skin like forgotten paper.

This tale sits exactly where you see it.

A crack appears in the frozen silence - one tiny idea, like a sprout breaking ice.

Should my tale appear nearby, the icehouse slips into view.

Even now, my mother’s hairpin stays hidden where the light does not reach.