Part 1: The Cracked Walls
(Summary: Girl sits in the corner of a small, damp room with peeling wallpaper. Mother coughs weakly on the thin mattress. Outside, the grandmother's sharp voice echoes. The girl presses her ear to the wall, wishing she could break free.)
The room smelled of damp stone, rotting wood, and something faintly sour — the old stew left too long in the corner, or the smell was just the room itself, steeped in years of quiet rot.
The girl sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her bare feet cold against the cracked floorboards. She traced a finger slowly over a long, thin crack in the wall, following it like a path, pretending it was a road leading somewhere far, somewhere outside, somewhere warm.
Her mother's cough rattled softly from the mattress — not a real bed, just a lump of thin padding laid flat on the ground, stained at the edges, the colour of old bruises.
"Shh," the girl whispered, glancing toward the door.
She knew the rules be quiet, do not draw attention, do not give Grandmother a reason.
Through the thin walls, she could hear faint sounds from beyond the locked door: the scrape of heavy shoes, the clatter of pots, the sharp, clipped voice of her grandmother barking orders at someone — probably one of the housemaids, though the girl had never seen them up close.
They existed only as shadows on the other side of the door.
Her stomach clenched. She did not know if she was hungry or scared. Both.
She pushed her ear against the wall, pressing hard until it almost hurt. Was that the sound of cars in the street? Voices? Laughter?
She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the outside: crowds, noise, people who did not know her name or her shame.
Behind her, the mattress creaked softly.
"Mama?" she whispered, turning just enough to look.
Her mother gave her a faint, flickering smile. She looked so small now, her once-thick hair hanging in thin strands, her skin pale and dry, lips slightly blue.
"It's alright, baby," her mother murmured, her voice barely stronger than a breath.
The girl crawled over on her hands and knees, tucking herself against her mother's side, feeling the rasp of each breath.
She looked again at the crack in the wall.
Tiny, but sharp. A break. A weakness.
And she wondered, just for a second, what would happen if she pushed.
Part 2: Small Defiance's
(Summary: The girl brings her mother water. The mother tries to soothe her despite worsening asthma. The girl hides small scraps (a pin, a shard of glass) under the mattress — tiny acts of rebellion. Grandmother bursts in, slaps the mother, warns the girl: "You'll end up like her.")
The girl dipped the tin cup carefully into the bucket by the wall, watching the thin surface of water ripple. Only a little left. She moved slowly, not wanting to spill a drop.
"Mama, drink," she whispered, holding the cup close to her mother's cracked lips.
The woman stirred weakly, eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow. She coughed once — a dry, painful sound — and took a sip. The girl waited, watching, willing the water to help, even though deep down she knew it would not.
Her mother's hand trembled as she reached up and lightly touched the girl's cheek.
"You're my brave girl," she murmured, her voice thin as paper.
The girl pressed her small hand over her mother's, squeezing hard.
"I'll help you," she whispered fiercely.
She slid back across the floor, moving toward the mattress. Beneath the edge, her tiny secret stash: a bent pin, a tiny shard of glass, a bit of metal she had pried from the bed frame. Worthless scraps — but to her, they were treasures. Proof that she was not just sitting, waiting. She was watching. Collecting. Planning.
The girl carefully pushed the pin further under the mattress. She did not know what she would do with it yet, but she knew it was hers.
The door slammed open.
The girl flinched so hard her head hit the wall with a dull thud. She bit her lip to hold in the yelp.
Grandmother's sharp figure filled the doorway — tall, bony, dressed in black, her silver hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful.
Her eyes swept the room like a blade, landing on the girl, then cutting to the mother.
"Still alive?" Grandmother sneered.
She crossed the room in three hard steps, her cane clicking against the floor. Without warning, her hand lashed out, striking the mother across the face.
The girl scrambled forward, her small fists clenched, but her mother gave her a tiny shake of the head — no, stay back, do not.
"You," Grandmother hissed, turning her cold gaze on the girl.
"You'll end up just like her."
The girl stared up at the old woman, trembling, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.
But she did not speak. She did not cry.
She only slid her hand under the mattress, fingers brushing the cold metal of the pin.
Part 3: Ghost of the Father
(Summary: At night, the girl dreams of her father — remembering his voice, his laugh, the way he promised to protect them. She wakes to the sound of her mother gasping for air. The room feels smaller, tighter, suffocating.)
Night in the room was a kind of heavy silence, thick like a blanket soaked in chilly water. The girl lay curled on the thin mat beside her mother, eyes half-closed but not asleep.
She traced the edge of the mattress with her finger, small circles, over and over, the rough fabric scraping lightly at her skin. She remembered — or only imagined — the feeling of her father's big, warm hands picking her up and spinning her through the air.
She could almost hear his voice, low and laughing, the way he used to lift her onto his shoulders.
"My brave girl. My little firecracker."
Her chest ached at the memory. She squeezed her eyes tighter.
Had he really been that big, that warm? Or was her mind making it up now, filling in the gaps?
The room smelled faintly of old dust and cold sweat.
She buried her face into the mattress, trying to smell something — anything — that still carried his scent.
A soft, rattling gasp broke the silence.
Her eyes flew open.
"Mama?"
She sat up sharply. Her mother was curled on her side, one hand gripping her chest, mouth open, struggling for breath.
"Mama, Mama—" the girl scrambled close, shaking her lightly.
The air in the room seemed to thin, tightening around them, pressing in.
The girl's heart pounded. She glanced wildly around the room, as if something — anything — might help.
The water bucket was empty.
The inhaler sat on the shelf, but she knew it was dry, useless.
Her mother's eyes fluttered open for a moment, looking at her, but the look was hazy, distant — like she was not seeing her.
The girl's hands trembled. She could hear her own breath, fast and shaky.
Outside, beyond the locked door, the house was silent.
Part 4: The Breaking Point
(Summary: The mother's inhaler is empty. The girl pounds on the door, screams — no one comes. In panic, she grabs the hidden shard of glass and tries to break the window. The glass cracks, splinters, and a few sharp pieces fall into the room.)
The girl's hands flew to the wooden shelf, grabbing the inhaler. She shook it hard, hearing the faintest rattle inside. She pressed it urgently to her mother's lips and pushed down — nothing.
She pushed again.
Nothing.
Her mother's breath came in short, rasping pulls, like a fish flopping on dry ground.
The girl's pulse thundered in her ears. She dropped the inhaler and ran to the door, pounding with both fists.
"Help! Please! Help!" she screamed, voice cracking.
She banged harder, fists stinging, tears blurring her vision.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No angry grandmother.
No one.
The girl spun, looking around the tiny room.
The single window sat high in the wall, too small for her to fit through, but maybe — she could get it open, scream for help, wave, something.
She scrambled to the corner, digging under the mattress for the hidden shard of glass. She wrapped her sleeve around it, squeezed hard, and climbed onto the old crate under the window.
Her small fist, shaking, struck the glass.
It shuddered. Cracked. A thin fracture ran down one side.
She hit it again, harder, the shard cutting slightly through the fabric of her sleeve.
The glass spiderwebbed. Tiny cracks split outward, delicate as frost, and then—
with a sharp, brittle snap —
the glass shattered.
A rain of splinters and shards poured down, glittering in the dim light. Tiny pieces rained across the floor, onto the mattress, onto her mother.
The girl gasped, heart slamming into her ribs, arms lifted to shield her face.
And then she saw the thin line of red.
A sharp piece had landed near her mother's neck — on the chest, on the throat, she could not tell — but blood was blooming, dark, and sudden, soaking into the thin fabric of her mother's dress.
The girl froze.
"Mama?" she whispered, voice barely there.
The room was so quiet, it almost felt like the entire world had stopped breathing.
Part 5: Blood and Silence
(Summary: The mother tries to reach the girl but collapses, gasping. As the window shatters fully, shards fly across the room. One strikes the mother. The girl freezes, realizing what she has done, as the room falls deadly silent.)
For a moment, it did not register.
The girl stared, frozen on the crate, watching the dark stain spread over her mother's chest.
Her mother's hand lifted weakly, fingers twitching in the air as if trying to reach her — or just trying to pull the breath back inside.
"Mama…" the girl whispered again, her voice shaking apart like thin ice underfoot.
Her mother gave a faint, rattling cough, eyes flickering.
She tried to sit up — but only managed a small, shuddering lurch before her body sagged back against the mattress.
The girl scrambled down from the crate, glass crunching under her knees.
She crawled to the mattress, her small hands grabbing at the blood-wet fabric, trying to stop the spreading stain.
"Mama, please — please…"
She pressed down, feeling the heat, the slickness, her own fingers slipping in the blood.
Her mother's lips moved faintly, no sound coming out.
Her eyes — wide, terrified — locked onto the girl's face for one long, trembling second.
And then… they did not move anymore.
The girl sat back on her heels, her hands covered in red, her breath coming fast and thin.
The window above let in a thin, cold draft, stirring the ragged curtains.
Somewhere, distantly, she thought she heard laughter — the world outside, the world that had never known or cared she existed.
Inside the room, there was only silence.
And the girl, her small body shaking, her mouth opening in a soundless cry.