The Hollow Room

A single drop of water echoed like a metronome in the hollow concrete cell.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

There were no clocks here. No sun. Only time measured by that relentless sound—falling from a rusted pipe above her head, pooling in a shallow depression on the floor. Even the rats had stopped visiting. The silence had become a living thing, breathing with her, whispering against the cracked walls.

Putri sat on the edge of a metal bench welded into the wall, knees pulled close to her chest, arms wrapped tight like a straitjacket. Her once-velvet voice had not spoken in days. Not because she couldn't. But because she chose not to. Words were currency, and silence—her last act of defiance.

Her eyes stared at the corner where the light no longer reached. Once, they sparkled with fire and defiance. Now, they flickered like dying embers, dulled by a hunger deeper than food or water.

She hummed, barely audible. Just a vibration against her breath.