chapter 10 Endless chores
957 Words
Aria carried the heavy basin of clothes into the small, cramped room Selda had assigned to her. The air inside felt thicker than outside, almost suffocating, heavy with the smell of dust, old wood, and the lingering aroma of yesterday’s cooking. Her arms trembled slightly under the weight, but she didn’t dare drop the basin. Selda’s sharp eyes were never far, and even a single mistake could mean extra chores—or worse.
“Put that down properly, Aria! Don’t spill!” Selda barked from across the room, her voice slicing through the silence like a whip.
Aria set the basin on the floor with meticulous care, willing her hands not to shake. Not a drop of water splashed. Mira and Rae lounged nearby, observing her every movement. Rae’s eyes held a quiet, sympathetic understanding, but Mira merely smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face as if the world’s suffering didn’t concern her.
“Why do I always have to do the hardest work?” Aria muttered under her breath, teeth clenched.
“You should be grateful you even have a room,” Mira whispered back, a teasing lilt to her voice that did little to comfort Aria.
Ignoring her, Aria bent over the basin again, scrubbing at stubborn stains. Each stroke left her arms burning, muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was a reminder of how trapped she was, how little power she had over her own life. Even as she labored, her mind drifted to fleeting memories of freedom: running barefoot across sun-warmed grass, climbing the mango tree at the edge of her mother’s garden, chasing butterflies and laughing until her stomach hurt. She could still feel the warmth of sunlight on her cheeks, the soft brush of wind against her skin, the taste of honey-sweet mango juice dripping down her chin. Those days seemed impossibly far away now.
A sharp tug on her sleeve yanked her back to the present. Selda’s face loomed close, eyes narrowed like a hawk surveying prey.
“Aria! Did I not tell you to finish before sundown?”
“Yes, aunty,” Aria replied, her voice soft but steady, though her heart thudded in her chest.
Selda stepped closer, inspecting the basin. Her fingers hovered over the wet clothes as if she could sense every imperfection. “Hmm… not bad. But still not perfect. You’ll need to redo these tomorrow.”
Aria’s chest tightened. Perfection was impossible, yet it was demanded every day. She pressed her palms against the basin, letting the cold water seep into her skin, grounding herself for just a second. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel the weight of it all—the exhaustion, the monotony, the ceaseless demands.
Memories flickered unbidden: her mother’s soft laughter, the delicate scent of herbs she had once played with in secret, the quiet stories whispered under candlelight. Those days had felt endless in a happy way, stretching into warmth and freedom. Now, life was endless in another sense—a relentless cycle of work and watchfulness. Aria’s green eyes glimmered with unshed tears as she tried to reconcile that girl with the one Selda now forced her to be: silent, obedient, invisible.
“Get up, Aria. We have more work,” Selda commanded, spinning on her heel to leave.
Aria rose silently, shoulders aching, muscles protesting. Even when Mira muttered a half-hearted, “Cheer up, it’s not that bad,” Aria could only offer a small, bitter smile. Rae’s eyes met hers for a fleeting second, and she imagined understanding there, a shared acknowledgment of her burden—but there was no time for words here. Only work. Only survival.
Hours dragged like molasses. Aria scrubbed floors until her hands were raw, polished surfaces until her knuckles ached, prepared meals until her body ached in every joint. The sun dipped low, painting long, stretching shadows across the cramped room, but Selda’s demands never waned. Even the faint scent of dinner being prepared elsewhere failed to distract her from her chores, each one a chain wrapping tighter around her spirit.
At one point, she paused for just a moment, breathing in the faint scent of the garden just beyond the kitchen window. The wind carried hints of jasmine and the faint earthy smell of wet soil. She imagined herself stepping outside, letting the breeze lift her hair, letting the sun burn away her exhaustion. For a fleeting second, the world seemed larger than Selda’s house, brighter than the wooden walls that hemmed her in.
When she finally sank to the floor to rest, her muscles trembling from fatigue, Aria allowed herself a small, defiant thought: I will survive this. I always have. Even here, even under the suffocating weight of her aunt’s rules, she could still feel the spark of something greater, something untamed and bright that her mother had left for her. A power that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with courage, endurance, and the refusal to be diminished.
And though the world pressed her down, that spark refused to die.
A faint smile crept across her face as she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “I will not be small forever.”
Outside, the wind stirred the curtains, carrying the soft scent of flowers from the neighbor’s garden. It smelled of freedom. It smelled of possibility. And for the first time in a long while, Aria let herself believe that somewhere, beyond these walls, a life waited for her—a life she would reach, one careful, determined step at a time.
Even in the darkest corners of Selda’s house, the girl under the mango tree still lived, still dreamed, still burned with a quiet, unyielding fire.
- Writer
