NADIA
The days bled into each other.
They didn't tell me right away.
No, they let silence linger first. Let it thicken the air in my cell like fog. Every time I asked about him, they gave me nothing. Just pitiful looks and phrases that trailed off before they reached any truth.
Until one morning, someone whispered it through the bars.
"He didn't make it."
My knees buckled. I didn't fall.
I shattered.
They say time softens grief, but it only sharpened mine. Each second without him was a silent scream lodged in my throat.
I was released from prison, but it didn't feel like freedom. Not when the world had grown smaller.
They led me to a chamber—my new "room," though it was nothing more than a polished cell. The windows were sealed, the door locked unless I had permission to leave. There was a bed, too clean. A desk, too empty. And a crib in the corner.
The only part of this place that didn't make me feel like a ghost.
