Cracks in the Silence

I've lost all sense of time.

There are no windows, no clocks—only the dull glow of ceiling lights that never change. The artificial brightness is a mockery of the sun. It leaves me disoriented, suspended in a world where night and day mean nothing. My body still aches for sunlight, for air, for something real.

And maybe for answers.

I don't know how long I've been here. Days have blurred into each other, until all I'm left with is the hollow rhythm of routine: eat, sleep, think, cry—repeat. They never speak. They never show their faces. Twice a day, someone slides a tray of food through a narrow gap in the door, and then disappears like I'm some dangerous animal they're afraid to look at.

I'm not hurt. Not physically. There's a soft bed, a private bathroom, even books on the shelf. But comfort doesn't erase captivity. This isn't kindness—it's control.

I'm not a guest. I'm a prisoner.

And worst of all, I don't know why.

---

I was conscious when they moved me.

Blindfolded, my arms bound, my voice raw from screaming. The man carried me over his shoulder, effortlessly, as though I weighed nothing. I still remember the feel of his jacket, the cold slap of wind on my face, and the scent of pine needles and forest earth as he ran.

But it wasn't just his strength that haunted me. It was his voice.

When I asked why—screamed it, really—he said something I can't forget, no matter how hard I try.

"Clara asked for this."

Clara.

That name has unraveled everything.

It doesn't make sense. Clara has been nothing but kind to me. Patient. Calm. She's the reason Dad even smiled again after Mom died. For a long time she tried to win me over. I didn't always make it easy for her but she never fought back. She just gave me space. And I grew up to love her dearly. The only mother figure I truly remember.

She supported my decisions. Even when I started seeing Josh. She never interrogated me. She didn't pry. She simply said, "As long as he respects you, that's what matters."

So why would she…?

No.

I try not to believe it. I tell myself that man could've lied. That maybe he said it just to confuse me. But something about the way he spoke—it wasn't cruel or mocking. It was resigned. Like someone fulfilling a duty he didn't want to speak about.

And that scares me more than anything else.

Because if Clara really did order this—if this whole thing is her idea—then why would she abduct me? Why would she want to hurt me?

It has to be someone else.

---

I'm starting to feel… strange.

I've spent my whole life believing I was ordinary. Not perfect—God knows, far from it—but normal enough. Now, I'm not so sure. My body has been acting weird since the move. At first I thought it was stress or lack of sunlight, but it's more than that.

I feel restless. Raw. Like something inside me is clawing for release.

Sounds are louder. Smells sharper. My heart beats faster for no reason. My skin feels tight, like it barely fits.

Am I going insane?

Or is something happening to me?

Today, I found a book on the shelf that I hadn't noticed before. It was old, with yellowed pages and no title on the spine. Inside were stories—myths, I thought at first—about people with "dormant blood" who awaken on their eighteenth birthday. It spoke of transitions, of transformations, of something ancient that sleeps in the body until it's ready to emerge.

One passage stuck with me:

> "Those born of wolf-blood will feel the call in isolation. If they are hidden during the time of awakening, their bond with the Alpha may be weakened or delayed."

My birthday.

It's close—I can feel it, even if I've lost the actual date. I've always felt a weird pull toward the forest, the moon, the scent of wild things. I thought it was just imagination. Teen girl stuff. Now I wonder if it was something deeper.

What if I'm not human?

What if that's why they took me?

God I'm actually insane. What am I thinking of?

I've spent days going back and forth—hating her one minute, clinging to her memory the next. I remember her soft hands brushing my hair when I was sick. Her telling Dad to go easy on me when I got suspended. The way she looked at me when I told her about Josh.

Could someone who cared that much really arrange for me to be taken?

But then I remember the man's voice again—"Clara asked for this."

And the certainty in it shakes me.

And that reminded me that I've not seen the man in a while. Is he avoiding me now also?

I want answers, but the silence is suffocating.

The woman too was always silent.

Every time she entered the room—her face half-shadowed by a hoodie or a scarf—she moved like a ghost. She cleaned quickly, efficiently. Replaced the linen. Restocked the books. Took the empty dishes and left without a glance.

I'd tried everything. Pleading. Screaming. Anger. Bargaining. But she never flinched, never spoke. Like I wasn't even human to her—just something to be maintained.

But I'd been watching her.

And I noticed something small, something human: the way her eyes lingered a second longer on a certain book, the one with dried leaves pressed between the pages. The way her breath caught slightly when I cried too hard. The way her hands trembled—just a little—when I mentioned my father one morning in a broken whisper.

So I changed my approach.

Instead of begging for help, I asked questions that were smaller. Softer. "Do you like to read?" "Do you live nearby?" "Did someone force you to be here too?"

Still, silence.

But today was different.

I waited until she was halfway through changing the sheets. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed and said, "I don't hate you."

She froze.

"I don't know who you are or what you've been told," I continued, "but I know you're not like the others. You flinch when I cry. You look away when I ask about my dad. That means you care, at least a little."

She still didn't speak, but she didn't move either.

"My name's Evelyn," I said softly. "My father's name is Daniel. He's probably tearing the world apart looking for me. And I just… I want to go home."

She turned her head slightly—just enough for me to see her eyes. They were green. Not cold like I expected, but tired. Sad.

"Please," I whispered. "Just tell me if he's okay. Just that."

A full minute passed.

And then, finally—soft, cracked, reluctant—the woman spoke.

"He's alive."

My breath hitched. "You—"

"I shouldn't be talking to you," she cut in, her voice hushed but firm. "If they find out—"

"I won't tell," I said quickly. "I swear. I just needed to hear someone say something. Anything."

She stood still, like she was waging a war inside her head. Then she said, "He's looking for you. Clara's with him."

I opened my mouth, but she raised her hand.

"I can't tell you more. I've already said too much."

But that didn't matter. Her voice had broken the silence that had been choking me for days. It was a crack in the wall. A reminder that the world was still out there. That people hadn't given up.

That maybe—even here, in this strange, silent place—I wasn't entirely alone.