SOFIA
It wasn’t planned. Nothing about it felt intentional.
That was what made it worse.
Clara didn’t explain when she told me to move; she rarely did. “East wing,” she said.
“That’s not specific.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
Of course. I followed anyway not because I agreed, but because there were fewer options now. The house had tightened again overnight. More presence, more visible structure, and less space between movement and restriction. By the time I reached the east wing, I already knew something was different.
The door at the end of the corridor was open. That alone was wrong.
I stepped inside. It wasn’t one of the usual rooms; not the controlled sitting spaces or the structured meeting areas. This one was smaller. Contained. One table. Two chairs. No windows.
The door close
