The lock between blood and bone

chapter 11 Her endurance

Aria’s arms were sore from scrubbing the floor, her fingers stiff and raw from the repeated motions. The water had long since turned lukewarm, and each movement felt heavier than the last. Selda hovered nearby, her eyes sharp and unforgiving, scanning for any hint of weakness.

“You’re slow today,” Selda snapped. “Is this how your mother raised you? Sloppy and careless?”

Aria’s chest tightened. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to kneel straighter. “N-no, aunty…” she whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the cracked, grimy tiles.

Rae and Mira lounged on the edge of the table, watching silently. Rae’s face was pale with quiet sympathy, while Mira’s eyes glimmered with mischief, as if she found amusement in Aria’s struggles.

“You should watch your tone, Aria,” Mira said softly, a smirk playing on her lips. “It’s hard enough surviving Mother’s mood without arguing.”

Aria ignored her, bending back over the floor. Each scratch of the brush against the tiles felt like a reminder of her confinement—how every moment here was a test of endurance. She longed for the days when her mother had been alive, when the house smelled of herbs and warm bread, when laughter wasn’t something she had to steal in secret. Those memories hovered at the edges of her mind, delicate and fading, yet more comforting than anything Selda could ever offer.

Just as she was about to rinse the brush, something caught her eye—a glimmer of spark outside the cracked window. For a heartbeat, her heart lifted. It was just a small flash—a leaf catching the sun, a stray bird flitting past, or the faint shimmer of dew—but it reminded her of her mother’s garden and the whispers of the wind that seemed to speak only to her.

Her green eyes followed the sparkle, tracing it across the courtyard in a silent, private moment of freedom. She imagined running barefoot across the grass, sunlight dancing on her skin, the scent of flowers heavy in the air. For a few fleeting seconds, she wasn’t a servant in Selda’s house; she was a child again, laughing under the sun, with her mother’s hand warm in hers.

“Aria! Stop daydreaming!” Selda barked, yanking her back to reality. “Finish your chores, or I’ll add extra work tomorrow!”

Aria’s shoulders slumped, but she allowed herself a quiet, secret smile. That small glimmer outside, that fleeting sense of freedom, reminded her that one day she would escape. That one day, she would breathe without fear.

The hours dragged on, heavy and relentless. She scrubbed floors, dusted shelves, and polished surfaces until her hands ached. Her back throbbed from kneeling, and the faint scratches on her arms stung from the coarse cloth and harsh soap. Yet even as her body protested, she found a small, stubborn rhythm. One tile at a time, one chore at a time—survival was slow, but it was hers.

Rae glanced at her with barely concealed concern, while Mira continued to smirk, tossing her teasing looks, as if daring Aria to break, to show weakness. But Aria refused. She pressed on, each movement a silent defiance, each scrape of the brush a reminder that she had endured worse and would endure more.

Between the chores, her mind wandered to tiny fragments of her past—her mother humming while tending the garden, Aria’s small fingers brushing against petals; the warmth of the sun on her cheeks during playful afternoons; the soft laughter of her mother that could chase away any fear. Those memories became a quiet shield, strengthening her resolve.

By the time the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the cramped room, Aria’s hands were raw, her arms stiff, her body exhausted. Yet a tiny flicker of hope glimmered in her green eyes. One day, the chores would end. One day, the fear would end. One day, she would step beyond the walls Selda had built around her, and the world would stretch wide and free before her.

And until that day came, she would endure. She would survive. She would remember the spark—the promise of something bigger than this house, bigger than Selda’s hatred, bigger than the pain she had learned to bear.