The shape of silence

The sharp scent of hay pricks her nostrils, each step accompanied by the faint crackle of something bending and crumpling beneath her weight. Slowly, she withdraws her hand from the slightly mold-stained wood of the entrance door; the dampness leaves a shadow on her skin, as if determined to mark her, to leave behind a reminder of this place. Of the indelibility of what happened within those four walls.

The late afternoon sun filters timidly through the wooden slats, uncertain whether it should illuminate the memories of her past while her heart skips a beat at every moving shadow.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She cannot let the panic win. She must focus. She must understand. She must remember.

She buried the memories of this place so deeply that trying to bring them back to the surface feels more arduous than seeing through the thick fog of the Inner Lands. The physical memory of this place has branded her body; it keeps her from sleeping on her back, stiffens her at any unfamiliar touch. Even hugs are unbearable, she cannot distinguish the difference between affection and captivity. She shifts away just enough not to be truly touched. Distance comes naturally to her. Distrust, by now, has turned into instinct.

No one will ever truly understand why, she keeps telling herself. They will think she is just shy. Reserved. Perhaps a little weird. It is an interpretation she allows to stand, because “weird” is a harmless label. The truth, however, is a wound that would not survive the light.

A cold, biting wind follows her from the stable entrance, tearing her from her thoughts and urging her to move forward without stopping. There is no time to linger on the effects of her past; she must trace it back to its cause.

Everything around her is still. Nothing dares to move. If something were out of place, perhaps she would not remember. If the stable had changed, if the central post were not darker than the others—a brown almost tinged with red. If the smell didn’t trigger a menacing churn in the pit of her stomach, then perhaps this place would feel foreign to her.

The others are waiting outside, silent, respectful of her need to be alone. But solitude does not protect her: she feels eyes upon her, fixed on her back, as if someone were watching.

She lifts a trembling hand. Hesitantly, she brushes the post at the center of the stable, the wood soaked with a piece of her. With difficulty she pushes back the tears threatening to spill. Small, long shivers lash her spine. She withdraws her hand quickly. She does not want to remember. She cannot remember.

Stepping away in long strides from the post and from the hooks fastened just above the height of her head, she retreats too quickly; unsteady on her own feet, she collides with something hard and sharp. Her arms flail, struggling to regain balance. Her body spins to avoid collapsing backward onto the chest behind her.

For an instant the world tilts, the floor threatening to slip from beneath her like loose sand, but her body reacts before her mind: she plants her heel, stiffens the shoulders, holds her breath. One uncertain step to steady herself, then another.

She remains still.

Her chest rises and falls too quickly; the air burns in her throat, something wet stings her eyes. Her arms are still half-raised, suspended mid-air. She lowers them slowly to her sides.

Why am I here?

The question cuts through her mind like a sharp knife. The walls feel closer than they should; the shadows shift slightly, curious memories waiting for her to falter. Those eyes keep staring at her, watching her every move. As if they knew precisely where she was.

A dull pain pulses at her temples. A hammer beats against bone, steady and relentless. She tries to anchor herself to reality. She swallows and focuses on what surrounds her: the edge of the trunk pressing against her thigh, the hay crackling beneath the soles of her boots, the distant, muffled sound of someone moving restlessly beyond the entrance door.

It’s all too much.

Her head is spinning. She closes her eyes for a second—just one. The darkness behind her eyelids is steadier than the world around her.

When she opens them again, the air feels thicker.

And the pounding in her temples has not stopped.

It is the price to pay for that knowledge, for that memory she buried so deeply she convinced herself she had never lived it. As if it belonged to someone else.

She knows she must open the chest. She knows what she will find inside. Yet she is not ready for the wave that will crash over her when memories will turn into tangible objects. There will be no more fleeing that knowledge. She will no longer be able to pretend at a happy childhood spent in the fields surrounding the family estate. No more flowers, dances, and the sweet neighbor next door. The palette of colors she painted her stories with—so convincing no one ever dared question them—will no longer be tinted with love and lightheartedness.

Like a bad dream, every piece of the memory she built to live far from the truth begins to crumble. Slowly, allowing her to taste the final moments of that carefully crafted illusion. A warning: no matter how much she tries to run from what she is, the truth of the past will always find a way to reach her.

Inhale. She closes her eyes. Savors, for one last instant, that memory.

Exhale. A silent farewell.

She opens her eyes. A single tear slips silently down her face. She reaches toward the leather buckle that seals that trunk of pain carved from ash wood. All around her, everything seems to hold its breath, aware of what it contains. Of what this moment means.

The wooden lid is heavy, forcing her to crouch and use all her strength to lift it. The smell of iron and leather floods her nostrils.

And there, before her eyes, lies what she had tried so stubbornly to forget.

Her past, made of leather whips and masks to swallow her screams