By the end of her first week in Aunt Ruth's house, Mara understood one thing clearly: nothing here was accidental.
The rules were not written down, but they were absolute.
They existed in the way Aunt Ruth's eyes followed her through rooms, in the sharp intake of breath when Mara moved too slowly, in the silence that stretched just long enough to make her heart race.
Every morning began the same way.
At exactly five o'clock, Aunt Ruth knocked once on Mara's door,not gently, not angrily, just firmly, as if reminding Mara that rest was a privilege she had not earned.
"Wake up."
Mara rose immediately, no matter how little she had slept. She learned quickly that hesitation was considered defiance.
She folded her blanket neatly, even though no one would check. She straightened the thin mattress, though it never quite lay flat.
She moved quietly down the corridor, barefoot on cold tiles, careful not to let the floorboards creak.
The chores waited for her like a test she could never quite pass.
She swept the living room, dusted the shelves, and washed the dishes from the night before.
She scrubbed the bathroom until the sharp smell of disinfectant made her eyes sting.
She cleaned the kitchen counters twice,once because they were dirty, and again because Aunt Ruth expected them to be perfect.
When she finished, Aunt Ruth inspected everything in silence.
Sometimes she found fault. Sometimes she didn't. The outcome rarely mattered.
"You missed a corner," Aunt Ruth said one morning, pointing to a spot so small Mara wondered if she had imagined it.
"I'm sorry," Mara replied immediately. "I'll redo it."
"You shouldn't need to redo it," Aunt Ruth snapped. "You should do things properly."
Mara nodded and cleaned the floor again, her knees aching, her fingers raw.
Breakfast, when it was given, was small and rushed. Mara ate standing up, never sitting unless told. Aunt Ruth watched her closely, as though measuring each bite.
"You eat like someone who doesn't know her place," she said once.
Mara swallowed hard and slowed down.
At school, Mara learned a different set of rules.
Ridgeway Secondary School was loud, crowded, alive in ways Aunt Ruth's house was not.
Students laughed freely, complained loudly, and argued with teachers. It felt unreal,like a world she was allowed to observe but not participate in.
She sat in the back of the classroom, shoulders tight, hands folded on her desk.
When teachers asked questions, her mind filled with answers, but her lips stayed closed.
Drawing attention felt dangerous.
Still, brilliance had a way of revealing itself.
During lessons, Mara absorbed everything. She understood patterns quickly, grasped concepts before they were fully explained.
When tests came, her hand moved almost on its own, neat and confident.
The results came back with red marks circling her score.
Top of the class.
The whispers began almost immediately.
"She thinks she's better than us." "Why does she always score highest?" "Does she even talk?"
Mara pretended not to hear.
At lunch, she sat alone, her back against the wall, eating slowly if she had food at all. Some days, Aunt Ruth didn't give her lunch money.
On those days, she drank water and told herself hunger sharpened the mind.
When she returned home each afternoon, Aunt Ruth was waiting.
"What did you learn today?" she asked once.
Mara hesitated. "Mathematics. English."
"Did the teacher praise you?"
"Yes, ma'am.
Aunt Ruth's face darkened. "Don't let it get into your head."
That night, Mara scrubbed the kitchen floor until her arms trembled.
As days passed, the abuse became less obvious,but more constant.
Aunt Ruth rarely shouted anymore. She didn't need to.
Her words were measured, precise, designed to cut slowly.
"You should be grateful." "You're lucky I took you in."
"Other people's children would be more obedient."
When Mara made mistakes, punishment followed,not always physical, but always painful.
Food withheld. Sleep interrupted. Silence used as a weapon.
Sometimes Aunt Ruth ignored her entirely, as though Mara had ceased to exist.
Those days were almost worse.
At night, Mara lay awake replaying conversations in her mind, searching for what she had done wrong.
She adjusted herself constantly,speaking less, moving slower, apologizing more.
She learned to disappear without leaving.
Books became her only refuge.
She read at night under the thin light from the corridor, her notebook balanced on her knees. Words calmed her.
Numbers made sense. In books, problems had solutions. Cause led to effect. Effort meant progress.
Life in Aunt Ruth's house did not work that way.
One evening, as Mara copied equations into her notebook, Aunt Ruth appeared in the doorway.
"What are you doing?"
"Studying," Mara replied softly.
Aunt Ruth frowned. "You study too much."
Mara's heart raced. "I thought,"
"Thinking is not your job," Aunt Ruth interrupted.
"Doing it."
She took the notebook from Mara's hands and flipped through the pages.
"All this," she said dismissively.
"As if it will change who you are."
She dropped the notebook back onto the bed and left.
Mara picked it up with trembling hands.
That night, she wrote a single sentence at the back of the book:
I will not stay here forever
She didn't know how she would leave. She didn't know when.
But she knew she had to believe in something,or the house would swallow her whole.
And so Mara followed the rules.
She stayed quiet. She stayed brilliant. She stayed alive.