The Woman Who Was Kept On A Shelf Novels & Stories

About focusing on survival instead of chasing impossible hopes. But I had come this far. I had to know. "I am certain," I said. We entered together. The warehouse was vast and empty, sunlight streaming through broken windows. Dust motes danced in the light. Our footsteps echoed on concrete floors. And in the center of the space, on a simple metal chair, sat a woman. She was older than I remembered from faded photographs. Her hair was streaked with gray. Her face bore scars I did not recognize. Her clothes were simple, worn, nothing like the elegant pack dress I had seen in pictures.

Not at a desk, not posed with deliberation, but sitting in the particular natural way of someone who has been somewhere for a while and is still there — the posture of someone who is in the middle of something rather than at its end or its beginning. Her face was not visible. The silhouette was complete but the features were not — and this, Adaeze understood immediately, was right. This was the right choice. Because the woman in the silhouette was not her specifically. Was not any specific woman. Was the woman in the dark. Every woman in the dark. The woman who was reading messages she was never supposed to see and sitting at a kitchen counter with her hand flat against the cool surface maki

That same day I looked like a special agent of the armed forces to discover the exact details of where the woman lived and what kind of life she had to commit that sin, the theft. And I found out she was a school student. "She is a woman. She is having a hard life, a poor life. She is an intelligent woman who is the leader of that group that created the experiment perfectly. She also did her best in that experiment because of the big reason and that is to sell the potion to the veterinarian named, Ivan Clayford, for 10 million dollars, " I read in the information of the person who is the theft in my record just yesterday.

** she paused, adjusting her glasses and releasing a sob before resuming **" According to the legends there was one particular woman that was imprisoned because she was a widow with grey long hair and claw-like nails. She had a daughter, her only child that was confined with her and bounded with a torture mechanism that hinders speech and does not permit the mouth to open wide. The mechanism was embedded with spikes that will pierce the throat, jaws and lips if the bearer attempts to open her mouth to speak.

At least to his former packmates, to the only family he had ever known, that man was now dead and gone. But despite the oppression and freezing temperatures, not all was completely silent tonight. No; because in one corner of the warehouse, still chained securely to the floor just like the others, one young woman was working tirelessly in her escape. And she wasn't alone. *Pass me that chip when you're done with it, would you* said the old female sitting beside her.

Now she glanced at it; the top shelf held a tray with a number of syringes and bottles. The woman started as the man undid the buttons on her shirt and opened it up, exposing her, a little. But he made no comment, didn't molest her, showed no emotion in fact, leaving her like that. She kept silent, however, having already been struck in the back twice with a nightstick for speaking.

“We’re taking grain to the palace. They said Day 15 they’d trade apples for grain. No swords. Just trade.” The keeper looked at the doll. At the mended thread. “Good,” she said. “Then you’re part of the mending now.” She didn’t give her name. Didn’t need to. She walked with them the rest of the day. Didn’t lead. Didn’t follow. Just walked. At dusk, the woman offered her bread. “For watching,” she said. The keeper took it. “For remembering,” she replied. She could’ve revealed herself fully. Told them she kept Veyren asleep for a century.

Before I could even gather myself, she stomped over to the shelf, grabbed another pot, and hurled it to the floor. The sound of clay shattering bounced through the walls like a scream. Esha. My heart stopped. I turned-my baby was frozen where I left her, holding the little spoon. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were wide. The spoon fell from her fingers with a sharp cling against the floor. The sound was louder than it should've been in that silence. She flinched hard and didn't move. I closed the door on that woman's cruelty. I didn't even look back. What was the point?

And shelves—so many shelves, filled with old books and even older photographs. My eyes scanned everything, desperate to memorize it all. My fingers brushed over the titles on the spines, none of them familiar. Latin. Greek. French. Then I saw it. A photo. Black and white. Framed in silver. Sitting alone on the mantle like it meant something sacred. I stepped closer. The woman was beautiful—dark hair, soft mouth, eyes like liquid grief. But it wasn’t just her beauty that made my breath hitch. It was her face.

We finished what we were doing and headed to the room the 'Queen' was kept. My heart was in my mouth. I was afraid and could feel my air supply cutting off, but I tried to force myself to breathe and relax. "Relax. We cannot panic around ferals. It triggers them," Raven warned me, and I composed myself. I was led into the room, and the curtains were closed with dim lights. I saw the woman on the bed. She looked thin, her dark hair matted to her forehead with sweat. Although the air conditioning was on, she was still sweating. She looked gaunt, and it was clear she was underfed.