Sofia
I didn’t go to breakfast.
I heard the movement in the hallway at the usual time. It was the same soft, rhythmic footsteps of the staff, the muted click of a door somewhere down the corridor. The house was waking up, a well-oiled machine beginning its daily cycle.
I stayed in bed. Not resting, but waiting. I wanted to see what happened when a gear refused to turn.
At 7:15, there was a knock.
“Miss Russo.”
Clara. I didn't respond. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the subtle patterns in the crown molding.
“You’re expected downstairs,” she said through the door.
I remained silent. A pause followed then came the sound of retreating footsteps. That was it. No second knock. No insistence. Just a note, registered and left alone.
I got dressed slowly, deliberately ignoring the clock.
