In the room where the existence of the moon was only an assumption and that of the sun a distant possibility, Janab's eyes opened at the sound of a creak that echoed along the cold walls. The noise vibrated through the structure before fading, breaking the static of confinement. The lights remained on, bathing everything in an artificial clarity that did not warm. The illumination was flat, without defined shadows, erasing any depth from the objects.
She scanned the place with a cautious gaze, noticing that the doorframe did not match its real volume, as though it had been designed to confuse. The architectural lines seemed to shift slightly when she fixed her eyes upon them. She felt a current of icy air brush against her skin and focused her sight, incredulous. The thermal flow contrasted with the stagnant temperature of the room, raising goosebumps along her arms. A new scent brushed her senses. She waited, holding her breath, until she confirmed that the door was slightly ajar. The sound of her own inhalation echoed loudly in the stillness.
The outside wind had managed to push the door Astilbe had left poorly closed. A narrow gap allowed the air to pass through from the other side. Janab paused to consider whether it might be a trap, whether someone could be waiting beyond. She sharpened her hearing, searching for footsteps or breathing in the darkness of the corridor. The thought kept her paralyzed, but after a stretch of absolute silence, she took a step forward, her fingers still trembling. The soles of her feet felt the transition between the inner carpet and the floor of the hallway.
The corridor stretched long and high, losing itself in shadows along a distant ceiling. The perspective converged into a black point at the far end, where the light did not reach. Identical doors lined both sides, but darkness and stillness reigned. Each entrance was identical to hers—closed, mute. She moved slowly, without touching the others: white walls and black floors, polished like mirrors that reflected a dense solitude. Her own image duplicated itself on the surface, distorted by the dark shine. The silence was so dense it could almost be touched. It pressed against her eardrums, heavy and constant.
Guided by faint glimmers filtering through velvet curtains, she approached the staircase. The fabric hung in heavy folds from ceiling to floor. Her hands parted the thick cloth; a blinding glow met her and drove a sharp pain into her temple. The natural light was violent compared to the artificial light of her cell. She stepped back, gripping the cold metal railing, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Her fingers tightened around the iron, seeking stability. When she finally looked into the void, the descent seemed like an invitation to the inevitable. The steps disappeared downward, toward a level she could not fully see.
She did not descend. A deep weariness overcame her: she did not know if she would ever regain her freedom. The tension left her legs, weakened by the certainty of confinement. At first her captivity had been a diffuse shadow; now, the certainty of having traveled to that city corroded her from within. The reality of the place settled upon her shoulders with physical weight. A single tear traced a line down her right cheek—a fragile proof that she still harbored a remnant of hope—and her hands clenched tightly, containing a sob that never broke free.
The threshold remained intact. She stepped back, returned to the dimness of the windowless room, and closed the door behind her with trembling hands. The click of the lock sounded final in the silence. She surrendered to chance, retreating into the prison that, by a cruel irony, was beginning to feel like her only refuge. She moved away from the entrance, seeking the bed, accepting the known limits over the uncertainty beyond.
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