It was the kind of silence that screamed. I stood in front of a polished mahogany table, my fingers cold and trembling against the pen. The papers before me blurred—thick sheets of legality that determined my fate. Marriage papers.
I didn't look at the man's name next to mine. My eyes drifted to the faces around me. My father stood rigid, hands behind his back, eyes fixed above my head, as if looking at me would make him weak. My mother's lips quivered. Her red, glassy eyes met mine for a brief moment before she looked away. Guilt flickered in her gaze, and it burned worse than the disgust I saw in the others.
The lawyer cleared his throat, impatient. The sound echoed like thunder in my skull. I signed. Once. Twice. My name trembled, as if it wanted to escape the ink.
When the final signature bled through the paper, something inside me went still. That was it. No vows, no rings, no witnesses of love—just ink, silence, and the weight of decisions that were never mine.
A maid appeared, her eyes empty, and gestured for me to follow. The hallway stretched long, lit by yellow chandeliers that seemed too rich for the air I was breathing. Every step echoed, hollow and lonely. The air smelled faintly of roses and dust—expensive decay.
When we reached the top of the stairs, she stopped in front of a narrow wooden door. "This will be your room," she said softly.
She opened it. The hinges creaked—a slow, tired groan—and darkness inside swallowed me whole.
A single lamp flickered weakly on a wooden desk, its light barely reaching the corners. The walls were a dull gray, cracked in lines that resembled veins. The air was cold and smelled faintly of old books and dampness. There was a narrow bed with a worn blanket, a small cupboard leaning sideways, and a mirror so dusty I could barely see my reflection.
Then there was the window—small, square, and half-covered with dust. I touched the glass. It was cold. Through it, I could see a sliver of sky—just one fading streak of orange light disappearing into night.
The door clicked shut behind me. Locked.
That sound, that soft click, felt louder than the world outside.
I sat on the bed, my body stiff, my heart a storm that couldn't find words. My fingers found the pen and notebook I had brought with me—the only things I owned now.
And under that dim lamp, I started to write. Not because I wanted to, but because if I didn't, I'd forget I still existed.