The Luna no one knows

The Silver Crest Packhouse never truly slept. Even at night, it breathed. Wood creaked. Walls settled. Distant footsteps moved like ghosts pretending they belonged somewhere. And beneath it all—silence. Not peaceful silence. The kind that warned you not to make noise. I learned how to survive inside that silence. My name is Lira. I am an omega. That was the only thing that mattered here. “Lira!” The shout cut through the corridor before I even reached the kitchen. I stopped immediately. “Yes,” I answered, already lowering my head. A woman stood near the storage room, arms crossed, face tight with irritation like she had been waiting for me to appear just so she could be angry. “You’re late.” “I woke up before dawn,” I said quietly. Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I asked.” I fell silent. That was safer. She stepped closer, looking me up and down like dirt had offended her. “You’ll scrub the east corridor again. The floor wasn’t polished properly yesterday.” “I already cleaned it twice,” I said before I could stop myself. The air changed instantly. A sharp inhale. A warning. I corrected myself quickly. “I mean… I’ll redo it.” A pause. Then a slow, satisfied smile. “That’s better.” She walked away without another word. I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. Then I picked up the cleaning bucket. And went to work again. ⸻ The east corridor was always the coldest part of the packhouse. No one liked coming here unless they had to. Which meant it was always assigned to me. The stone floor stretched endlessly, lined with tall windows that let in weak morning light. Dust collected quickly here. Almost like the place refused to stay clean. I knelt and started scrubbing. Again. And again. The water turned grey too quickly. My hands were already red from earlier work, but I kept going. Pain was normal. Slowing down was not an option. As I worked, voices echoed faintly from the upper floor. Not clear enough to understand. Just fragments. “…border patrol…” “…missing supplies…” “…punishment for negligence…” Normal pack things. Things I was never part of. I didn’t listen closely. Listening closely made you curious. Curiosity made you noticed. Being noticed was dangerous. So I focused on the floor. One tile at a time. Clean. Move. Repeat. Clean. Move. Repeat. Time blurred when your life had no change in it. ⸻ By mid-morning, my arms felt heavy. I stood carefully, stretching my stiff fingers, and reached for the bucket. Half empty again. It would refill. I would refill it. And it would empty again. That was how my days went. I turned toward the corridor exit— And stopped. Footsteps. Multiple. Coming fast. I stepped aside immediately, pressing myself close to the wall. A group of warriors passed. Strong. Loud. Confident. The kind of people who never looked down. Only forward. One of them laughed. “They say the training grounds are being upgraded again.” “About time,” another replied. “We’ve been slacking since last month’s raid.” Their voices faded down the hall. I stayed still until the silence returned. Then I moved again. Careful. Invisible. ⸻ The kitchen was already chaos when I arrived. Metal clanged. Water boiled. Orders were shouted like weapons being thrown. I slipped in quietly and set my bucket down. No one greeted me. No one ever did. “Lira!” Of course. I turned immediately. The head cook stood near the stove, pointing at a pile of dishes like they had personally offended her existence. “Those need to be washed before noon service.” “Yes,” I said. “And don’t break anything.” “I won’t.” She scoffed. “That’s what they all say.” I picked up the dishes and moved to the washing station. The sink water was already cold. It always was. I rolled up my sleeves and started scrubbing plates. The kitchen noise filled the space around me, but I didn’t join it. I never did. I worked faster instead. Faster meant leaving sooner. Leaving sooner meant fewer chances of mistakes. A crash sounded behind me. Someone dropped a tray. Instant shouting followed. “Are you useless?” “I didn’t mean to—” “You always say that!” A slap echoed sharply. I didn’t turn around. Looking would make it real. And if I acknowledged every punishment around me… I would never stop seeing them. So I kept washing plates. One after another. Until my fingers went numb. ⸻ By the time I finished, the sun had moved higher. My arms ached, but I wasn’t allowed to rest yet. There was always something else. “Take these to storage,” the cook ordered, tossing me a stack of clean trays. I nodded. “Yes.” I carried them carefully through the corridor. The packhouse felt busier now. Voices overlapped. Doors opened and closed. Life moving around me like I was a wall no one needed to acknowledge. I kept my head down. Kept walking. Until— I heard it. A sound I didn’t recognize. Not a voice. Not footsteps. Something softer. Like fabric sliding over stone… too smooth… too controlled. I stopped without meaning to. Silence around me deepened. Then it passed. Whatever it was. Gone. I frowned slightly. Then shook my head. “Too tired,” I whispered. I continued walking. ⸻ The storage room was at the far end of the lower corridor. Cold. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect. I placed the trays inside carefully and straightened up. My back ached slightly. I rubbed my wrist and exhaled. Just a few seconds of rest. That was all I allowed myself. The corridor outside was empty when I stepped back out. Good. I preferred it that way. I started walking back— And then I saw it. A door slightly open. Not fully. Just a small gap. I stopped. That was unusual. Doors were always closed in this section unless someone was inside. I hesitated. Then walked past it. Slowly. Carefully. No reason to get involved in things that didn’t concern me. But as I passed— A faint sound slipped through the gap. Not loud. Not clear. Just enough to make my skin tighten slightly. I paused again. Listened. Nothing followed. Silence returned. I frowned, then kept moving. “Not your business,” I reminded myself quietly. I continued down the corridor. Without looking back. ⸻ The rest of the day blurred into more work. More cleaning. More carrying. More orders that didn’t need my name to be remembered. By evening, my body felt like it had been carrying the packhouse itself. My hands trembled slightly as I rinsed the last bucket of water. Cold water. Always cold. I set it down and stood slowly. The packhouse was beginning to quiet again. Night was coming. That meant fewer voices… but heavier silence. I gathered my things and prepared to leave the kitchen area. No one stopped me. No one noticed me leaving. As usual. I stepped into the corridor— And paused. Something felt off. Not danger. Not fear. Just… tension in the air. Like the building itself was holding its breath. I looked down the hallway. Empty. Of course. Still, I stood there for a moment longer than usual. Then I shook my head slightly. “Stop thinking,” I whispered. And walked away. Into the night.