Scarlet
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that pressed in around me, was thick and unmoving. The kind that made my own thoughts louder, impossible to ignore. I sat cross-legged on my bed, the book lying in front of me like it held all the answers to the universe.
Maybe it did.
My fingers traced the rough, aged cover, feeling the centuries woven into the thick, timeworn leather. It smelled like history—like something sacred, something powerful. Something forbidden.
I exhaled slowly.
I had barely touched my dinner.
I had barely heard a word my parents said at the table.
Not that they noticed—my father had been too focused on his own work, and my mother had been too occupied with reminding me that I should be concentrating on my studies.
Not history, not old storie
