Elara Dwijaya
The clock on the wall of the living room moved with a rhythm that felt like a slow-motion execution.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Every second there was a hammer blow against the remains of my freedom. It was seven-fifteen in the evening. I sat on the thick, plush carpet, staring at Lyra’s open notebook. The numbers on the page blurred, obscured by the sting of my tears.
"Ms. Elara? Seven minus three is four, right?"
Lyra’s high-pitched voice pulled me back from the edge of the abyss. I blinked hard, forcing my vision to sharpen. The little girl was watching me, the end of her pencil caught between her teeth, her brow furrowed in that adorable, concentrated way she had.
"Hmm? Yes. That is right, sweetheart. Four," I said. My voice sounded jagged, like I had been swallowing dry sa
