Chapter 13: False Refuge

The days began to melt into each other like softened wax.

He stopped locking the door behind him. I stopped flinching every time he walked in. The rhythm of our strange coexistence began to settle — too quietly, too naturally.

Food always came on a tray: warm, neatly arranged, and different each time. Yam and egg sauce one day, pancakes drowning in syrup the next. He never lingered. Just a light knock, a step inside, the clink of a tray on the table.

“Eat something. You’re starting to look like a feather,” he’d say, voice steady, detached — almost brotherly. Then he’d leave before I could decide whether to thank him or scream.

I never asked for the meals. I never said thank you.

But I ate.

Not because I wanted to — because I had to.

One afternoon, he came in without a word and draped a blanket across my shoulders. Another time, he left a soft cotton robe folded neatly on the chair by the window.

“You don’t have to act like a guest,” he told me once, watering a plant in the hallway while I hovered near the doorway like a shadow. “You live here now. Feel at home.”

Those words slid under my skin like a splinter.

Feel at home.

Was this what my life was going to look like from now on?

And the worst part—the part I couldn’t even admit to myself—was that sometimes, I almost did.

Maybe it was the silence, or the way the house wrapped around me, warm and still, like a memory I’d never lived. Maybe it was the way he acted—less like a captor, more like someone protecting a fragile secret.

But it didn’t make sense.

None of it did.

So the next morning, when the sun spilled through the cream curtains, I decided to move. To see. To know.

I crept into the hallway, barefoot, quiet. The walls were lined with paintings—soft landscapes, foggy forests, lakes that looked like they were holding their breath. I passed a room with a massive bookshelf, the kind that brushed both walls, heavy with books.

I didn’t notice any of this before. But then, the first day, I was too busy running from fear to notice anything.

The next room held a baby grand piano covered by a white cloth, ghostlike under the light. Every door I passed was slightly open, like the house itself was trying to reassure me:

You’re not trapped. You can look. Just not too far.

I peeked into a study—oak desk, leather chairs, books stacked like towers, the faint smell of ink and dust. Another room overflowed with greenery, plants spilling from pots, vines crawling down from the ceiling. It smelled alive, almost forgiving.

But the farther I walked, the air began to change.

Cooler. Heavier.

Still.

The floor creaked softly beneath my feet, and that’s when I saw it.

A door.

Closed.

All the others had been open. But this one stood sealed at the end of the hall, dark wood scarred by faint scratches, as if someone—or something—had tried to open it once.

I froze, staring.

It didn’t belong here.

I pressed my ear against it.

Nothing.

Then—

A whisper.

So faint I thought I imagined it. Then another, layered and uneven. Voices. More than one.

A low groan followed, thick and muffled, like someone in pain trying not to make a sound.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

No. That couldn’t be real.

I looked behind me—the hallway was empty, drenched in the kind of quiet that hums in your teeth. I turned back, reached for the knob. It didn’t move.

Locked.

My fingers trembled against the handle. I leaned closer, breath held, trying to make out the words. But they were distorted, as if they were underwater.

Another groan. Louder this time.

I stumbled back, my pulse racing so fast I felt dizzy. Every instinct screamed run, but curiosity—stupid, dangerous curiosity—pulled me forward again.

I pressed my eye to the narrow crack where the door met the frame.

Darkness.

Nothing moved. Or maybe everything did. My breathing drowned out the silence. Shadows shifted—or maybe that was my imagination twisting in fear.

Cold crawled up my spine. I turned and ran.

Back through the hallway.

Past the rooms.

Back to the only space that felt remotely mine.

I shut the door behind me, pressing my back to it, chest heaving.

The silence returned—but not the peaceful kind. The kind that listened back.

The tray of pancakes sat untouched on the table, syrup gleaming under the morning light. My stomach turned.

Who was behind that door?

And why was it the only one locked?

Then—

The click of the front door downstairs.

He was back.

My pulse thudded so loud I could barely hear his footsteps—measured, steady, the rhythm I’d come to know too well.

I stepped into the hallway just as he turned the corner.

His eyes found mine—steady, unreadable.

There was a flicker of something in them.

Curiosity? Concern? Or suspicion?

“You’re up early,” he said, voice smooth as ever.

“I was just… walking around,” I managed.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like he always did—like he already knew more than I wanted him to.

“Good,” he said finally. “The house could use some life.”

I swallowed hard. “You were gone a long time.”

“Had a few things to pick up,” he said simply. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded. “You should.”

I tried to smile—a thin, nervous curl of lips. “Welcome back,” I whispered.

He held my gaze for a moment longer, then walked past me toward the kitchen.

I stood there, hands cold, every nerve buzzing with the memory of those whispers.

But I said nothing.

And he didn’t ask.