Steam curled softly from the bathroom tiles. The water ran down her back in silence. Her eyes didn't blink. She didn't move.
She stood beneath the stream of hot water, head bowed slightly, like the weight of everything pressed down on her shoulders. She was clean, but she didn't feel it.
Later, she sat in front of the mirror — dry now, wrapped in a robe. Her brown hair hung loose over her shoulders. She stared at her reflection, seeing the face everyone else knew: the writer, the face on posters.
But she didn't recognize it.
Behind her, tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with hardcovers bearing her name. A framed poster above them showed her smiling — that same empty smile she couldn't fake anymore.
She rose slowly and sat at her desk. The ink bottle waited. The blank paper stared back.
Her hand shook as she picked up the pen.
She wasn't ready to write. But she needed to pretend.
> "You're writing again?"
The voice came from the doorway — warm, gentle. The same woman from before, now leaning lightly against the doorframe.
> "Come eat. You need it."
The writer didn't answer.
But she stood.
Together, they walked through the hallways in silence, the air still and heavy. The house was grand — too grand for how quiet it was.
When they entered the dining hall, the old man was already waiting. Apron tight around his waist, hands carefully plating food with a quiet kind of love. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.
> "Fresh bread. Roasted squash soup. Just like you used to ask for."
Still, she said nothing.
She sat.
The second woman stood for just a moment longer, then raised her hand.
A soft gesture. Silent but understood.
The three maids bowed their heads and walked out — wordless, practiced, slow.
Now only three remained.
The cook placed the bowls down with care, spoon facing inward, napkin folded. His every movement was delicate — like they were all pretending this was just another night.
But nothing had been normal in a long, long time.