His Pretty Little Pup
I learned where sound traveled and where it died in the stone, where my breaths could hide among the rafters and where they would shout like trumpets.
At first my plotting felt like childish rebellion—a small, defiant thing against a house that had become a tomb. But repetition turned it into something steadier, a map of possibilities sketched in the margins of my days. In the morning, I performed the role they forced on me: ate the bitter tea, chewed the mint until my mouth bled, kept my face composed, answered only when spoken to. Then I waited until the shadows lengthened and I could move.
The small things mattered most. I began with scraps.
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