The moment the door clicked shut, sealing her fate, Ela's desperation surged. She threw herself against the solid barrier, fists pounding with futile force as she called out, her voice cracking with emotion. "Father! Please, you have to listen to me!" But the corridor beyond remained silent, her pleas disappearing into the void, unanswered.
Exhaustion and despair soon overtook her spirit, and she slid to the floor, a heap of broken resolve. Tears streamed down her cheeks as sobs wracked her body, each cry a testament to her helplessness. Cradling her head in her arms, she wept until the tears no longer came, and sleep mercifully claimed her in its cold embrace, right there on the unforgiving floor.
Meanwhile, Harrison struggled to compose himself, the image of his wife's lifeless body haunting his every thought. With a heavy heart, he issued orders to the guards, He whispered, the weight of his words hanging heavy despite their quiet delivery. "Clean up the mess. Take care of Adelia... and give me some space." The guards nodded, their expressions somber, as they set to work in silence.
Alone with his thoughts, Harrison sank into a chair, the weight of suspicion and grief bearing down on him. The surreal vision of Ela turning to sand before his eyes replayed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the impossible. "Her sigil," he murmured, the pieces of the puzzle refusing to fit. "But how?" Doubt clouded his judgment, the conviction that he needed to hear Ela's side of the story growing stronger. Yet, he decided to wait, to let the turmoil within him settle before taking any action. That night, he sought refuge in the guest room, where sleep eluded him until the early hours of the morning.
With dawn breaking, Harrison approached Ela's room, determined to confront the nightmare head-on. The door resisted at first, blocked by an unseen barrier. With a forceful push, it gave way, sending Ela tumbling aside as he stepped into the room. She awoke with a start, her eyes wide with shock and confusion.
"We need to talk," Harrison stated, his voice heavy with unspoken questions.
A silent nod, barely more than a sigh, was all Ela could manage.. "Okay." She rose from the floor, taking a seat on her bed, her posture tense with anticipation.
"What's going on?" she ventured, her gaze fixed on her father.
Harrison's eyes searched hers, a mix of hope and dread in his voice. "I was hoping you could tell me. I saw you... with Adelia. And then you disappeared. Am I going insane?"
Ela's heart ached at the accusation, her denial swift and earnest. "I swear, Father, I never left my room. I was asleep." Her plea hung between them, a fragile bridge over a chasm of mistrust.
"But I saw you," Harrison insisted, the certainty in his voice faltering.
Ela's mind raced, grasping at explanations. "I had a horrible dream, but it was just that—a dream. You can ask the guards. I never left." Her words were a plea for understanding, for belief.
Harrison paused, the silence thick with tension. "I want to believe you, Ela. I don't want to lose you too." His confession was a raw edge, cutting deep.
Ela reached for him, her resolve unwavering. "I did nothing, Father. I could never hurt her, no matter what."
He stood, his decision clear, though it pained him. "Stay in your room for now, until we figure this out." His departure left a void, her assurances echoing in the empty space.
Ela remained still long after Harrison's departure, a statue carved from turmoil and silence. Her face was devoid of expression, a mask that concealed the tempest swirling within. She sat at her desk, a solitary figure amidst the echo of her thoughts. Mixed feelings about her mother's death brewed a storm in her heart—a dark, secret relief shadowed by guilt. "How can I feel glad?" she whispered to the emptiness, her fingers trembling as they rose to her temple, tapping lightly as if to dispel the thought. "Did I... could I have done it in my sleep?" The question hung in the air, unanswered, a specter of doubt.
Her gaze drifted to a picture of Irene, a beacon of brighter days. "What are you doing now, Irene?" she murmured, a smile flickering and fading at the corners of her lips. "What would you do in my place?" The photo, a snapshot of freedom, seemed to mock her current confinement.
Laying back on her bed, Ela's mind wandered through the endless expanse of her isolation. How long would these four walls hold her captive? The boredom was a heavy cloak, smothering. Her life had shrunk to the confines of this room, each day a mirror of the last.
Suddenly, a sliver of hope as the door creaked open. She leapt towards it, heart racing, only to be met by the indifferent face of the guard as he slid a plate of food through the opening. The door clicked shut before she could utter a word. "Am I supposed to be a prisoner now?" she yelled, knowing well that her voice would only bounce off the walls and back to her, unanswered.
The plate was a colorful array of her favorite dishes, accompanied by a dessert and water. She picked at the food, eating just enough to chase away the hunger, then pushed the plate aside, her appetite lost to the void of her solitude. Only the dessert held any appeal, a sweet respite in her bitter reality.
In the days that followed, Ela took to journaling, pouring her swirling thoughts, boredom, anxiety, and the suffocating tightness in her chest onto the pages. Each day, the guard's visit was a punctual reminder of the world beyond her reach. "Can I see my father?" she asked, her demeanor reflecting a struggle between hope and acceptance. The lack of response was an answer in itself.
Ela ate mechanically, barely tasting the food, her senses dulled by the monotony of confinement. Only the dessert brought a momentary glimmer of joy, a fleeting sweetness that lingered on her tongue, a reminder of life beyond these walls.
Ela's pen hovered over the journal, its pages a testament to the monotony that had seeped into her bones. Each entry began the same, a weary echo of the last, save for the brief odes to her daily desserts. The sameness of her dreams—a voyeuristic view of herself sleeping—offered no escape from the tedium. With a sigh, she scrawled a few more lines, only to find the pen faltering, its ink spent.
"Great," she muttered, the pen falling from her fingers, clattering against the hardwood of the desk. In a moment of frustration, she let her forehead meet the table with a soft thud. A wild thought flashed through her mind, sparking a dark humor in her eyes. "Maybe I should just use my blood to write... Yeah, that'll add some color to these pages," she said aloud to no one, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. It was a laughter tinged with hysteria. "God, I really am going insane."
Pushing back from the desk, Ela stood, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. She needed something, anything, to break the cycle of sameness. Meditation was her first attempt—a bid for inner peace or at least a momentary distraction. But the calm eluded her, impatience buzzing under her skin like a trapped fly. "Not today, then," she huffed, abandoning the effort as quickly as it had begun.
Pacing became her next resort, a back-and-forth trek across the familiar terrain of her room. Each wall was an old friend, each crack and crevice a well-known landmark. On a whim, she drew the curtains shut, the room dimming to a twilight. A single candle flickered to life at her touch, casting long shadows across the walls.
"Shadow puppets," she declared, a sudden spark of inspiration. Memories of lazy afternoons with Irene, their hands dancing, creating stories on the walls. But her fingers were clumsy now, the shapes malformed and unrecognizable. Frustration boiled over. "I used to be good at this," she grumbled, the failure a bitter pill.
Defeated, she slumped against the door, ear pressed to the wood, craving a snippet of the world beyond. The guards outside became unwitting performers in her private play, their footsteps and grumbled conversations a lifeline to normalcy. Mimicking their voices, she found amusement in their mundane complaints. "Hate this spot," she echoed in a mock gruff voice, laughter chasing the words.
The door swung open unexpectedly, a plate of food sliding across the threshold. Startled, Ela retreated to her bed, heart racing from the surprise. Once the door clicked shut, her laughter returned, a solitary sound in the quiet room. "Might as well ask," she whispered to herself, knowing the futility of her request to see her father.
Ignoring the main course, Ela dove straight for the dessert, elevating the act to an art form. "In today's critique," she announced to an imaginary audience, "we explore the complexities of this exquisite confection." Each bite was savored, a brief escape into a world of flavor and sweetness.
The remainder of her meal joined the growing mound of discarded food in the corner, hidden beneath a bedsheet. The stench was a grim reminder of her reality, but the dessert had offered a momentary reprieve, a taste of something akin to joy.
Exhaustion pulled at her limbs as she lay on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The candle's light flickered, casting dancing shadows until they too faded into darkness. As sleep claimed her, it was with the hope that perhaps, in her dreams, she might find a new escape, however fleeting.
