AMAYA
She leaves that word ringing.
Trash.
It echoes off the wood like a thrown stone, careening around the corridor until there is nothing left to hear but my breath and the dull thud of my heart.
I stand there very still, clutching the polishing cloth so hard the fibers cut into my palm. The urge to run pulses through my muscles, run to the forest, to the stream with its glass-black water, to the path where the pines whisper and the world is bigger than this house and its petty knives.
I make myself bend, pick up the oil bottle, and move to the next panel.
If I stop, I break.
If I break, I make it easy for her.
When the panel gleams and my reflection looks back at me, eyes too bright, cheeks too pale, I set the bottle on the cart and start toward the back corridor. It’s quieter
