The night her mother died, the stars disappeared.
Not from the sky—they were still there, flickering faintly behind heavy clouds—but from her world. From the fragile, seven-year-old heart that stopped believing in anything good that night.
The funeral was quiet.
No one cried.
Not her father, who stood at a distance, cigarette between his fingers, as if he were waiting for it to end.
Not her brother, who pulled his hand away when she tried to hold it.
Only her.
Silent. Still. Small.
Dressed in a wrinkled white dress, clutching a single daisy she had picked from the roadside… because no one else thought to bring flowers.
After that day, the house changed.
Warmth turned into something sharp and cold.
Meals became punishments.
And her name?
Disappeared.
She was no longer a daughter.
She was "you."
"You, clean this."
"You, stop making noise."
"You, don't touch that."
Sometimes, the beatings came without warning—fast and violent, like storms that left no time to run.
Sometimes, hunger stayed longer than any bruise ever did.
But the words…
The words stayed the longest.
"You should've died instead of her."
At some point, she stopped denying it.
And slowly… she started believing it.
Years passed like that—stitched together with silence, pain, and empty nights.
She stopped talking.
Stopped crying.
Stopped expecting anything at all.
Until one evening… she heard them.
Voices. Low. Careless.
Her father… and a stranger.
"She's seventeen," her father said. "Quiet. Obedient. Works without complaining."
There was a pause.
Then the man spoke—his voice deep, calm… unreadable.
"Does she break easily?"
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the wall.
Her father let out a dry laugh.
"She already is."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Final.
"Fine," the man said. "I'll take her."
"Good," her father replied quickly. "Clear my debt, and she's yours."
Yours.
The word didn't even hurt anymore.
She didn't move when the man stepped out and his eyes landed on her.
Cold. Assessing.
Like she wasn't a person… just something he had already paid for.
Not when her father walked past her and placed a hand on her head—mockingly gentle.
"Don't mess this up," he muttered. "For once in your life… be useful."
That night, she sat by the window, clutching her thin blanket, staring up at the sky.
The stars were still there.
Distant. Untouchable. Uncaring.
Just like everything else.
Her lips parted slightly as she whispered to herself—
"Don't cry."
Her fingers tightened.
"They don't get to see you cry anymore."
The next morning, a black car stopped outside the house.
She didn't say goodbye.
Didn't look at her father.
Didn't look at her brother.
She only glanced at the door once…
The place that was never really home.
Then she stepped inside the car.
And never looked back.
Because somewhere deep inside her, she already knew—
People like him…
Don't buy broken girls to save them.
Author's Note
This is where her story truly begins.
Not in the house that killed her from inside…
But in the one that might destroy her even more or bring light in her life..
Because all she is a debt clearance for her dad..
And she was never meant to be anything more than…
A purchased item...