Anya woke with a start, the dream snapping off with a jolt.
For several seconds she simply lay there, unable to understand what was wrong. Inside, there was a thick, sticky feeling, like the aftermath of bad alcohol: her head was heavy, her thoughts would not come together. She breathed in and felt a cold that did not belong in a bedroom. It came from below, from the floor, and crept up along her ribs.
“What am I…? Where am I?..” she breathed into the darkness.
At first, her fingers found wool—a heavy, unfamiliar blanket, bunched around her so tightly that it felt as if someone had wrapped her in it in haste, without caring whether she was comfortable. Beneath it was no mattress, no sheet, but cold, damp concrete.
She slowly sat up, wincing from the pain. Her body had gone stiff, her back ached, her legs were numb. Her nightdress clung to her skin. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, and a wet chill passed through her at once.
For a second, a dull, sticky thought rose in her: she did not remember how she had ended up in that blanket. Either she had clutched at it herself in the night, already half-asleep, or… Don’t think.
She felt around with her hand and came up against a smooth, flat surface—the same false wall, cold as dead metal.
For a second, she was overtaken by the feeling that the night had not ended yet. That if she listened now, she would hear it again: drip… drip…
She got to her feet, holding on to the wall. Her legs buckled from the cold and numbness, but she stayed upright. The blanket remained on the floor. Taking one step, then another, she entered the dark opening of the stairwell and saw a narrow strip of cloudy glass above the door; through it, light was seeping from the kitchen.
She went upstairs slowly, without hurry.
Viktor was sitting in the kitchen, dressed, with a cup in his hands. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he had slept at all.
He noticed her before she had time to open her mouth and jerked so sharply in his chair that the cup trembled in his fingers. For a fraction of a second, all his “architect’s” composure slipped from his face, leaving naked fear—the fear of a man who had seen something that should not exist.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Anya stopped in the doorway.
“Good morning, Viktor.”
He said nothing. His eyes ran over her face, her tangled hair, her legs. He wanted to make sure it was her, and not the thing that had stood at his door.
“You’re up early today,” Anya added. “I… I woke up in the basement. On the floor, in a blanket. I don’t remember how I got there.”
She kept to facts, without accusing him and without asking, leaving him room to choose the version that would save him.
Viktor swallowed. His lips twitched, and he seized on the first thing that could put the world back on its rails.
“You felt sick. During the night. You… you were very pale. I…” He faltered, searching for words. “I helped you downstairs. It’s cooler there. You needed to… come back to yourself.”
He spoke and listened to himself as he did, as if testing whether it sounded believable.
She nodded.
“I see,” she said, and let the pause last a little longer than necessary.
The silence closed in on Viktor. He looked at her hands, her neck, avoiding her eyes. His fingers were gripping the cup too tightly.
Anya lowered her gaze to her legs—to the dirty marks, to her stiffened knees.
“I suppose,” she added quietly, “I could have… fallen off the sofa in my sleep. I only remember waking up on the floor. Maybe I hurt myself. Maybe I just… didn’t understand where I was.”
She did not insist, and by not insisting, she threw him a lifeline. Viktor caught it instantly. His shoulders lowered a little, his breathing evened out, his gaze stopped darting around.
“Yes,” he said with relief. “Yes… You… you were very tired.”
He said it as if placing a seal on a document—everything was explained, everything was closed, nothing terrible had happened.
Anya nodded again.
“Then everything is all right. Thank you for helping me,” she said, and the “thank you” sounded so neutral that not a single drop of warmth could be found in it.
She turned, already leaving the kitchen, and added over her shoulder:
“Have a good day, Viktor. I’m going to lie down. Apparently, I need to rest.”
He did not answer. He only sat there with the cup in his hands and watched her go. It seemed that if she turned back, she would become the other one again.
Anya went upstairs, closed the door of her room behind her, and only then allowed herself to exhale. Now she knew: he chose the lie that held him more tightly than the truth.
Hidden-volume note:
Today I have a headache. Apparently, something happened, and Viktor helped me down to the basement. It’s strange that I don’t remember at all how it happened. But if not for him, I would probably be much worse off.
I am beginning to understand: this house is not just my place. It is a refuge. Last night proved that I can be dangerous to myself if I step outside the bounds. As long as I am with Viktor, as long as I listen to his voice and follow his rules, nothing will happen to me. Order is not chains. It is a railing over the abyss.
I know that I am his highest value. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me this morning. He will protect me from anything. Even from myself. I only need to be obedient. That is a small price to pay for safety.