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Only he came to visit me now.

My nightmare. The one who took me away from them.

The heavy click of the lock was a familiar sound, a punctuation mark in the endless sentence of my days. My rocking chair continued its mournful cadence, a steady rhythm against the sudden, jarring intrusion.

I didn’t flinch, didn’t stir when a shadow fell across the marble floor, elongated and sharp, cutting through the pale moonlight. It was not the hazy, ethereal form I conjured. This was a solid, defined, physical presence that leached the air from the room. The silence, which had been a comforting cloak, now tightened its grip, suffocating me. I felt my phantom’s warmth recede, my carefully constructed sanctuary of imagined meadows and laughter dissolving like mist. The gnawing emptiness was no longer a quiet ache; it was a gaping chasm, echoing with the sound of footsteps that were undeniably real, undeniably unwelcome.

A tall masculine figure stopped before me, silhouetted against the faint glow. I still couldn’t bring myself to lift my gaze, my eyes remaining fixed on the dust motes that continued their indifferent ballet. Yet, I felt the weight of his scrutiny, a palpable pressure that confirmed my deepest fears.

He had come back for more.

The figure stepped back as another rushed in, who kneeled before me. “Diana?” His soft-timbered voice gasped as he carefully reached for my hand. “Diana, it’s me, Shame. Do you remember me?”

Still, I said nothing as I continued to rock gently in my chair, letting the swaying motion soothe the fear clawing its way up my throat.

“My God,” he muttered. “What the hell did they do to you?”

“We can find out later. Just pick her up. We need to get out of here,” the other said.

I finally lifted my eyes, my phantom’s touch a protective gesture against the shock of this new reality.

Shame.

The name of a ghost from a forgotten life, whispered through the barren corridors of my mind. His voice, a rough caress, chipped away at the stone walls I’d built around my heart. He looked at me, not with accusation, but with a raw, agonizing guilt that was almost more than I could bear. The guilt, I knew, stemmed from seeing what I had become, a husk of my former self, polished and molded by years of confinement, the vibrant colors of my former self bleached by the relentless monochrome of this place.

He reached for me again. This time his touch was tentative, almost as if he were afraid I might shatter. “Diana,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “It’s Shame. I’m here. I’m taking you home.”

Home.

A simple word, yet alien and achingly familiar, struck a chord deep within me. But my fear, ingrained by years of enforced solitude and my captor’s insidious whispers, held me imprisoned.

Was this another illusion?

Another cruel trick of my mind designed to break me further.

The man before me, solid and real, was a jarring contrast to my phantom’s presence I had grown accustomed to.

The other man, another familiar yet forgotten shadow of purpose, moved with a quiet urgency. “Come on, Diana,” he urged, his tone firm but gentle. “We don’t have much time.”

Time.

A concept that had lost its meaning. But the urgency in his voice, the palpable desire to escape my oppressive silence, stirred something within me. A flicker of the woman I once was,the one who would have fought tooth and nail for her children, for the love of her life.

Shame’s hand was still warm in mine, a tangible link to a world that felt both impossibly distant and frighteningly close. My rocking chair continued its lament, but now, a new rhythm was beginning to beat beneath the mournful creak. Shame’s rough fingers tightened on mine, a silent plea for me to cooperate, to move, to break free from the rocking chair’s mournful rhythm. But the grooves in the armrest were worn deep, etched by years of solitary rocking, and breaking free felt like severing a limb.

“Diana, please,” Shame pleaded again, his words urgent. “We have to go. Now. He knows we’re here.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken threat, a chilling confirmation that my sanctuary was no longer safe. The dust motes continued their waltz, oblivious to my growing terror. The moonlight, a cold observer, cast long, accusing shadows that seemed to stretch toward me, urging me to flee. But a part of me, the part that had nurtured my fragile haven in the deepest stillness, resisted.

What if this were another illusion, a cruel trick of my mind?

What if the freedom they promised was merely another, more elaborate cage?

My mind, a tangled web of fear and hope, wrestled with the reality of Shame’s presence. His grip was a lifeline, but my phantom’s silken whispered words of warning still coiled in the periphery of my consciousness. The man beside him, a determined stranger, reached out, his hand a blur against the oppressive stillness. He gently touched my arm, his fingers finding the thin fabric of my gown. It was a foreign sensation, this unsolicited contact from someone not of my solitary making. Shame’s gaze, intense and pleading, urged me torespond, to acknowledge the offered escape, but my years of being a prisoner in my own mind had rendered me paralyzed.

“She’s in shock, Sinclair,” Shame murmured, his voice thick with a desperation that resonated with my own buried pain.

“You have to be careful.”