Isla’s room had become a cell.
The door was locked from the outside—bolt thrown, key taken. Two guards stood silent in the corridor, one on each side, their silver armbands catching the thin shaft of daylight that slipped under the door. The window was too high and too narrow to climb. The mirror lay in pieces on the floor, shards swept into a rough pile by Isla’s own trembling hands after the guards had left her alone. She hadn’t dared look at the broken glass again. Not after the voice.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, knees drawn to her chest, bandaged hands wrapped around her shins. The cuts from the shattered vase stung beneath the makeshift bandages, but the pain felt distant. Everything felt distant. The room smelled of dust, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of her own
