Chapter Three - Rosa

The red bucket was brimming perilously close to the top, a noxious odor wafting from it with an unsettling stench. A guard bearing the number ‘57’ practically threw it back in while other guards dragged the trio back from wherever they came from.

 I had foolishly made the mistake of asking the old man about the peculiar absence of that familiar figure who usually trailed behind him when he appeared the next day. His eyes had crinkled at the corners, his mouth tightening in a way that suggested unsaid words were hanging in the air. But he chose silence. 

I crouched on the cold floor farthest from the bucket, leaning against the smooth surface of the glass while I traced delicate, imaginary flowers in the condensation that clung to it. I have been doing so for a while now. The other side remained untouched; the fog blurred everything beyond the glass, shrouding it in an opaque mystery. 

A sharp, unexpected tapping resonated against the glass by the door. Heart racing, I darted to the back wall, my instincts screaming at me. Before I could gather my thoughts, the door creaked open, and the red bucket was swiftly snatched from its place; the sound of the latch clicking back echoed ominously in my ears.

I wasted no time. Bursting into motion, I dashed back to the glass, my forehead colliding with its cool, foggy surface. As if a spell had been cast, the area where my gaze lingered slowly cleared of condensation, revealing a glimpse of the world beyond. I was met by dark green eyes that briefly regarded me before shifting away, leaving me breathless with surprise. I continued to stare, my wide eyes glued to the glass as more and more of it became transparent under an unseen hand.

"You're back." I hummed quietly to myself.

The tension etched into the shadowy figure's jaw caught my attention as he stretched to reach higher on the expansive glass wall. In a moment of inexplicable impulse, I raised my hand and traced swirling, vine-like patterns against the surface, mimicking the sinewy tendons in his arms that strained as he worked. Frustration radiated from him in palpable waves as he scrubbed at the glass with increasing fervor, only to eventually fling the soaked towel over his shoulder in exasperation. He shot one last glance at the glass before storming out of sight, leaving me in the silence of my own thoughts.

Curiosity sparked in my mind as I noticed my red bucket, forlorn and re-abandoned, now outside the door. With a soft thud, I plopped back down onto the floor, resting my head in my hands, elbows propped on my knees, trying to make sense of it all. My contemplation was short-lived; the man soon reappeared, dragging a ladder behind him, his expression stoic and unyielding as he set it up right in front of the glass, a new and bigger towel in hand.

With keen interest, I watched him from my spot on the floor, though boredom began to creep in. I decided to stretch my vines towards the hooks on the walls and ceiling, lifting myself into a swing that hung playfully in front of him. With a gentle kick of my feet, I swung back and forth, the thrill of the movement sparking a carefree smile across my face, but after only a few moments, I gave up on that and twirled myself upside down.

Still, he didn't look my way, but the way his jaw clenched and unclenched let me know that he was thoroughly unimpressed by my antics in front of him. Gathering my courage, I called out to him, "Your zipper is down." I tapped the glass pointedly in front of his pants, a teasing grin on my face.

Startled eyes darted down to me, and I watched as a hint of realization washed over him, only to be followed by an astonishing speed at which he wiped the glass cleaner, frazzled by my interruption. "I'm serious!" I insisted, my amusement bubbling up.

Despite my attempts to engage him, he continued to ignore me. Undeterred, I rose slightly higher until we were face to upside-down face. I beamed a wider smile, and at last, I caught his attention. As his eyes locked onto my grin, disbelief flickered across his features, and he instinctively reached down to check his pants. The moment his hand met the closed zipper, he shot me a dirty look that sent me into fits of giggles. 

"Don't look at me like that! I wasn't lying. It's down to me." My voice hung in the air, but when I received no response, I let out an exaggerated sigh, drawing attention to my frustration. He continued his task, not sparing me a single glance as he descended the ladder, the creaking of its rungs the only sound in the otherwise still space. With practiced ease, he moved the ladder to the left side of the door, positioning it to reach the remaining top glass.

Realizing he wasn't leaving anytime soon, I quickly repositioned myself to mirror his actions on my side of the glass. As he resumed his meticulous wiping, I decided to make a game of it. I placed my palm against the barrier, coordinating my movements with his, wiping the glass in sync with his deliberate strokes.

As he departed immediately after completing his task, a sly smile began to unfurl on my lips. Despite his rigid exterior and his deliberate avoidance of my gaze, I glimpsed a fleeting spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. It was a barely perceptible glimmer, yet it sent a wave of satisfaction through me—he adjusted the tempo of his wiping every time I started to pick up on them in my little game.

I remained pressed to the glass long after he’d gone, my breath creating a fresh bloom of fog that faded just as quickly. For a moment, I entertained the possibility that he might double back—maybe to retrieve something he’d forgotten, or perhaps, irrationally, because he wanted to. But the hallway outside remained empty, sterile. Quiet.

Still, I didn’t move. Not even when my muscles ached from holding myself in the same position for too long. The condensation began to reclaim the glass, obscuring the outline of where his face had briefly aligned with mine. I exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. Just sound. Just proof I was still here.

I let myself slide slowly down until I was curled into the base of the glass, knees tucked under my chin. My fingers absentmindedly dragged through the condensation again, but this time I didn’t draw flowers. I traced the shape of his hand—long fingers, wide palm, the little notch near the knuckle where he once cut himself on a broken latch. I hadn’t forgotten. I wondered if he had.

I pushed that thought away like a plate of food gone sour. He knew me. The others never looked, not properly. They never noticed the small movements, the little jokes. They didn’t flinch when I spoke, but they didn’t stay either. They left like the red bucket—delivered and removed, clinical, efficient. He lingered. He let me linger.

“Come back,” I whispered, more to the room than anyone in it. “I’m bored again.”

As if summoned by my words, a new sound broke the hush—a soft shuffle, a click of shoes against cement. My head whipped toward the door, heart in my throat.

A different figure stood beyond the glass, obscured by the darkness on the other side of the hall. Their face was hidden the the shadows. This one moved more slowly, the rhythm of their motion more cautious, less familiar. I froze, instinct warring with curiosity. My body remained still, but my vines, ever bold, crept up the edges of the glass, reaching for clarity.

The figure paused. A hand started to reach forward, and for a moment, I thought they might reach for the door. But instead, the hand hovered, then lowered, disappearing out of view. I only caught flashes of white fabric, the kind worn by the others who didn’t stay.

I pressed my palm to the glass anyway, just in case.

Minutes passed. Nothing. The hallway fell into stillness once more, and my stomach twisted with something I couldn’t name.