Elira couldn’t breathe.
The walls were closing in. The air felt heavier with every step. The house, once full of life, was now laced with ghosts—her ghosts.
She stood in the bathroom again.
But this time, she didn’t turn on the faucet.
This time, she looked in the mirror and whispered:
“Silas.”
And the memories came crashing down.
—
Sixteen years ago.
She’d just turned fifteen when Clara took her from school.
Said she was “fragile.” Said the city was too loud. Said she needed “peace and guidance.”
They went to the mountains.
She remembers the drive.
She remembers the glass-walled room with no windows.
The pills.
The silence.
The pain.
And she remembers him.
He was older. Nineteen. A boy Clara called “clean,” “genetically perfect,” “obedient.”
He never touched her with af
