Walls with No Doors

I woke up late. The sunlight was already pouring through the sheer white curtains, casting soft, glowing patterns on my ceiling. I blinked against the light. It was almost 11 a.m.—almost lunchtime. Yet I still lay there, frozen in place, my eyes fixed on the ceiling above me, my mind racing with fragments of last night. What exactly happened? Why did Andreis keep insisting I go to sleep like something bad was coming?

I took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm the storm in my head. There were so many questions circling in my mind—loud, restless thoughts I was dying to get answers to. But no one ever really gave me answers around here. Only silence, glances, and half-truths.

What surprised me most was that Mom and the others didn't wake me up for breakfast. Usually, someone would be knocking at my door by 9 a.m., reminding me it was time to eat or asking if I was okay. But today? Nothing. Maybe they were too busy. Or maybe they just didn't care anymore.

Still, I stayed in bed, not really sure what to do with myself. I turned to my side, curled up a little, and stared at the wall.

What am I even going to do today?

The silence in the house was almost eerie. The only sound was the distant chirping of birds outside—and the loud growl of my stomach. I sighed. I was starving. Reluctantly, I pulled the blanket off me and forced myself to sit up. The cold wooden floor sent a small chill through my toes. I stretched, stood, and walked toward the bathroom for a quick shower.

The water felt refreshing, almost grounding. Afterward, I pulled on a pastel blue dress—the one with the tiny heart stitched on the left chest, just over where my real heart felt so heavy. The hem brushed just above my knees. Simple, but still one of my favorites.

Before heading downstairs, I checked my phone.

One unread message from Max:

"Sorry. I was tired last night and didn't get to call you. Call me when you're free today."

I stared at her message for a moment, a small sting of disappointment hitting me. Of course she's busy. She works in the city, with a real job and a life filled with noise and motion. Meanwhile, I'm just… stuck here. In this place. With nothing but time.

I sighed and replied:

"I'll call you later. Love ya."

Then I noticed two missed calls from the same unknown number that tried yesterday.

Who could this be?

I typed out a message:

"Sorry, who is this?"

I hit send, set my phone back on the bedside table, and finally headed downstairs.

The scent of freshly cooked food greeted me from the dining area—warm and rich, like a hug I didn't ask for but secretly needed. I found Marco seated at the table, hunched over his laptop like always. His face was lit by the screen's glow, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.

There was a plate set across from him, like someone had been expecting me.

He looked up briefly when he heard me coming.

"Don't keep the food waiting," he said flatly before returning to his work.

I rolled my eyes but said nothing. I still had no idea what Marco actually did. Something for Dad's company, I think. But then again, I don't even know what kind of business Dad runs. I asked once and all he said was, "Don't ask about that." So I didn't. Not again.

I sat down in Mom's usual seat across from him.

"Where's the food?" I asked, confused by the empty plate.

"KC, bring Mia her food. She's awake now," Marco called out without looking up.

KC—Kenny's wife—had been with us since I was a kid. She was basically the queen of the kitchen. A few seconds later, she walked in carrying a tray.

"Spaghetti with meatballs, Mia," she said warmly as she placed the plate in front of me.

I smiled at her. "Thanks, KC."

She looked the same as always—graceful, gentle, not a single wrinkle out of place. Honestly, it was like she hadn't aged a day since I was little.

Maybe the air on this farm really does keep you young, I thought with a small grin.

The food smelled amazing. The spaghetti was perfectly cooked, coated in a rich, slightly sweet tomato sauce that clung to each strand. The meatballs were soft and juicy, bursting with flavor with every bite. I didn't even realize how hungry I was until I started eating. It felt like a small comfort in the middle of all this confusion.

I glanced at Marco. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Where's Andreis?" I asked, casually.

He didn't answer.

I swallowed another bite and tried again. "Why are you here? Don't you have work?"

Without missing a beat, he snapped, "Do I look like someone with no work?"

Ugh. Always sarcastic. I glared and lightly smacked his arm.

"I meant, why are you working here—at home?"

He paused for a second, then looked up.

"I'm not letting what happened yesterday happen again," he said seriously. "I only let it slide because Dad asked me to. Do you really think I didn't know what you did?" He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "You put yourself in danger, Mia… if only you knew."

His words hung heavy in the air. My chest tightened. I looked down at my plate, suddenly losing my appetite.

When will I ever feel free?

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to stop the tears from rising. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. It was all so unfair—always being watched, always being told what I can't do, never being told why.

Marco must have noticed the way my expression changed. His tone softened slightly.

"Mia, we're doing this for you. We've been protecting you since you were little. That's why you're here. You'll understand everything. Soon."

I couldn't say a word. I had no response. It felt like the energy had been drained out of me in one breath.

I stood up without saying anything else. My food sat half-eaten on the plate.

I climbed the stairs slowly, like every step was heavier than the last. As soon as I reached my room, I closed the door behind me, threw myself onto the bed, buried my face in the pillow—and screamed. Loud. Raw. Like my voice could finally release all the pain and questions I had been swallowing for years.

The scream echoed into the fabric. But it didn't make me feel better.

I was tired.

Tired of being caged in this beautiful prison.

Tired of being protected from something no one would name.

Tired of not knowing who I was, or what I was being kept from.

I didn't understand them.

I didn't understand anything.

I just wanted to leave.

To run.

To escape—again.