After the chaos of the past few days, the bathroom felt like a sanctuary.
The warm water cascading over my skin reminded me, just briefly, of what peace might feel like. I leaned against the tiled wall, letting the stream wash away the dirt, the pain, and the weight of everything. For a few minutes, I wasn’t a slave. I wasn’t the girl who had nearly died. I wasn’t the girl purchased like a forgotten item at a market.
I was just… me.
After rinsing off, I turned off the water and wiped the steam from the mirror with my hand. My reflection stared back at me — wet hair clinging to my face, eyes heavier than they should be for someone my age. I noticed how thin I’d become, how hollow my collarbones looked, but what caught my attention most was the strange birthmark beneath my left breast. A
