Thea sat by the window of her room, staring out at the sprawling gardens she always walked. The world beyond the iron gates seemed so alive, so distant from the suffocating confines of her life. She was eighteen now, a young woman on the cusp of adulthood, but the years of isolation had left their mark. Sometimes, when the nights were quiet and the house was still, the memories would creep in, vivid and unrelenting.

The first memory she couldn't shake was of Mr. Armond, her piano teacher. She had been only ten when he started coming to the house, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a soft voice. At first, she had been excited; music had always been her escape. But the lessons quickly turned into something she dreaded. His hands, which should have guided her on the keys, lingered too long. A hand on her back as she played, a brush of her neck under the pretense of correcting her posture, his fingers tracing her hands as he adjusted their position, or the unsettling way he would cup her face and tell her she was "special."

She had frozen each time, paralysed. Her stepmother, had made it clear that Thea's purpose was to be perfect, to never cause trouble, to never embarrass the family. How could she possibly speak up? Who would believe her—the unwanted girl—over a respected man like Mr. Armond? And so, she said nothing, retreating further into herself. She began to dread the sound of the piano, a bitter irony for the instrument that had once been her solace.

After those lessons, Thea often found herself lingering in the quiet corners of the house, desperate to avoid anyone who might notice her distress. She felt as though her voice had been taken from her, replaced by a growing knot of anxiety that choked her thoughts. Even the gardens outside—once a fantasy of freedom—seemed unreachable, just like her dreams of being understood or cared for. It was during one of these moments of solitude that her second memory unfolded, one she could never forget.

The incident with Gregory, her oldest half-brother. 

She had been heading to the library room, when Gregory appeared at the top of the stairs. Without warning, he shoved her hard. The world spun as she tumbled down the staircase, the edges of the steps biting into her side, her head colliding sharply with the floor at the bottom. Pain exploded through her body, and the house blurred around her as darkness crept in at the edges of her vision.

Nobody was punished that day. Anna's only comment had been about how "careless" Thea must have been to fall. But Thea knew better. She bore the evidence: broken ribs that made every breath agony, and bruises that painted her skin in shades of blue and purple. And yet, the worst wound was invisible—the light in her eyes disappeared with her tears. She stopped hoping, stopped dreaming. She was not someone; she would never be.

She had thought, perhaps, her father might notice. That he might see her limping down the halls, her fragile frame thinner than ever, her faint smiles trembling under the weight of unspoken pain. But whenever she approached him, he avoided her gaze. He turned away from her tentative words, her small, hesitant gestures. He refused to see her bruises, her brokenness, her need. To him, she was a shadow—a presence too inconvenient to acknowledge. Her father's indifference cut deeper than any wound Gregory or Anna could inflict. He didn't care, and his silence screamed louder than words ever could.

She wasn't tired of being invisible; She felt nothing already. She turned away from the window, her reflection catching in the glass. Her face was beautiful, but the light in her eyes had long dimmed.

Many other memories played out in the window's glass, vivid and haunting. Each one was a reminder of pain, isolation, and the life she had endured. They passed like fleeting shadows until the outside darkness finally wrapped around her, sending her away from the window and back into the confines of her lonely world.