He took care of me... better than anyone ever had.
Meals cooked just right, quiet nights when the world felt too loud, his presence like a fragile shield against the chaos I fled.
He gave me some clothes... simple but clean... and even some jewelry, delicate pieces that caught the light and made me look like a completely different person. Then he showed me a room that had once belonged to his sister, Misha. Her clothes were folded neatly in drawers, her belongings arranged with care, untouched by time.
He told me I could wear what I needed, take what would make me feel… like someone new, someone who might survive.
For the first time in a long while, I caught a glimpse of someone who might just endure.
He never let me leave the house alone. "It's not safe," he said, eyes dark with something I couldn't name...
At first, I told myself it was love, protection... he was my escape, after all. I didn't need any other.
But the walls started closing in, the air grew thick with something unspoken, heavy.
I began to itch for freedom, to breathe outside these four walls that felt more like a cage, the same cage as 16 Rues Des Lias.
One night, I finally pushed. "I want to go out. Just for a little while."
His eyes narrowed, his voice low and tight, "No. Not yet."
The silence between us cracked, sharp and brittle.
I stormed toward the door.
"WAIT!" His hands gripped my shoulders, trembling with desperation.
I shook him off, anger boiling over. "Stop holding me back."
He pleaded, voice breaking, "You don't understand. I'm trying to keep you safe."
But the fear inside me... old scars, old pains... exploded.
And then... A sharp slap.
The sting roared across my face, drowning out everything.
Shock and something darker swirled inside me, but beneath it all, the sick relief settled like a poison.
He apologized immediately.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you."
And I believed him.
At least he knows.
At least he feels the weight of what he's done.
That means he loves me.
It has to.
My father hit my mother like this... his fists were the only way he could say he cared.
And now, in this twisted echo, I hold onto his apology like a lifeline, desperate, broken, alive.