The first thing I noticed was the cold. It seeped through my clothes and into my skin, settling against my bones with a stubbornness that made it impossible to ignore. I lay curled on my side, my cheek pressed against a hard surface, and for several long moments I couldn't understand why I was so uncomfortable. I tried to pull a blanket over myself. My fingers met nothing but empty air.
Confused, I opened my eyes.
Darkness greeted me.
Not the familiar darkness of a bedroom after the lights had been switched off, where the shapes of furniture lingered in the corners and the world remained reassuringly close. This darkness seemed thicker, almost tangible. It swallowed the space around me, leaving only a faint suggestion of walls and an indistinct patch of grey somewhere above my head. I blinked several times, hoping my eyes would adjust. They did, eventually, but there was little to see.
A rough stone wall stood a short distance from my face. Its uneven surface was barely distinguishable from the shadows surrounding it. The floor beneath me was cold and hard, and the air carried a damp, musty smell that reminded me of a basement that had been shut for years. I frowned. A basement? Why would I be sleeping in a basement?
I tried to lift my head, but a dull ache spread through my forehead. I lowered it again, pressing my palm against my temple. My thoughts felt sluggish. I remembered a carriage. A rough wooden floor. The rhythmic clatter of wheels. Two men speaking outside, their voices drifting through the walls while I lay bound and gagged. I remembered the older man telling the younger one to keep his mouth shut.
I remembered the border city.
And then—
Nothing.
My stomach tightened.
I pushed myself onto my back, wincing as pain flared through my shoulder. For a moment, the darkness tilted around me. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the dizziness to pass. When I opened them again, I could make out more of my surroundings. I was in a small room. No, not a room.
A cell.
The word arrived before I could stop it, carrying a weight that made my chest tighten. I sat up too quickly. The world swayed. I caught myself with one hand, my palm scraping against the rough stone floor. My breathing became shallow, and I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. A cell.
I was inside a cell.
The last fragments of my memories began falling into place, each one more unpleasant than the last. The carriage had brought me to the city. The men had passed through the gate without difficulty. They had spoken about an auction house, a place called the Hall of Ledgers. And now I was here. I looked down at my hands.
They were free.
For several seconds, I simply stared at them, as though I couldn't understand what I was seeing. I turned my wrists over and examined the angry red marks left by the ropes. The skin was irritated, with a few shallow abrasions where the fibers had rubbed against it. I flexed my fingers. They moved normally. I raised a hand to my mouth and found that the gag was gone, too.
Relief came first, small and instinctive. I could move my hands. I could speak. I could breathe without cloth pressing against my lips. Then the relief faded. There was no point in tying me up anymore. I was already locked away.
My gaze drifted toward the far side of the cell. A wooden door stood there, dark and heavy, its surface reinforced with iron bands. I could barely distinguish the outline of the handle, but a faint glint of metal suggested a lock. Near the bottom was a narrow rectangular opening, closed by a small wooden panel. I stared at it. A hatch.
Food, perhaps. Water. Whatever the people responsible for this place decided I needed to remain alive. I swallowed. My mouth was painfully dry. I tried to remember the last time I had drunk anything. The warm milk at the bakery came to mind, followed by a wave of nausea so sudden that I had to press a hand against my stomach.
I forced the memory away.
Not now.
I needed to understand where I was before I allowed myself to think about anything else. I drew a slow breath and looked around the cell again. The walls were stone, unevenly fitted together, with dark lines of mortar running between the blocks. The floor was made of the same material, though patches of straw had been scattered near one corner. There was no window that I could see. No lamp. No candle. Only a faint trace of light coming from somewhere beyond the door, thin enough that it barely reached the floor.
The cell was small enough that I could probably cross it in four or five steps. I had no idea how long I had been unconscious. The light outside might have come from torches in a corridor, or from a window farther away. It could have been daytime or night. Without a proper view of the sky, I had no way to tell. I rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself.
My clothes were the same ragged garments I had worn when I left the bakery. They were wrinkled and dirty, and one sleeve had been pulled partly out of shape. The hem of my skirt was stained with dust. I could feel grit against my skin. Had the men dragged me across the ground? The question brought back another fragment of memory.
A door opening.
Light flooding my eyes.
A hand gripping my arm.
I went still.
The memory was faint, like an image glimpsed through murky water, but it was there. I closed my eyes and tried to hold on to it. The carriage had stopped. I remembered the wheels ceasing their familiar rattle, followed by the horse stamping impatiently against the ground. The men had exchanged a few words, but I couldn't recall what they said. Then the rear door opened.
Cold air rushed inside.
Someone seized my arm.
I remembered trying to pull away, though whether I had been fully conscious or merely reacting through the haze of the drug was difficult to determine. My body had felt heavy and uncooperative, my limbs refusing to respond with anything close to their usual speed. A man's voice had told me to move. I couldn't remember which one. I remembered my feet touching the ground. My knees had nearly buckled beneath me, and the man holding my arm had tightened his grip, keeping me upright only because he didn't want to deal with the inconvenience of letting me fall.
The image shifted.
Stone beneath my feet.
A narrow passage.
Someone speaking nearby.
Then a sudden jerk as I stumbled, followed by a sharp pain in my shoulder. I had fallen. No. Someone had dropped me. The memory became clearer for a moment.
I was lying on my side, trying to push myself up with hands that felt too weak to support me. One of the men stood over me. His face was blurred, but I could see the outline of his boots and the hem of his coat.
“Careful,” the younger man had said.
The older one answered with a dismissive grunt.
“She'll live.”
Then the sound of footsteps moving away. I remembered lifting my head and seeing the wooden door. I remembered trying to crawl toward it. And I remembered the door closing.
The sound had been enormous in the small space, a deep, final slam that seemed to reverberate through the floor. After that, nothing. I opened my eyes. I was back in the cell.
My breathing had grown uneven, and my hands were trembling against my knees. For a moment, I could almost feel the man's grip around my arm. I could almost hear the door closing again. I pressed my palms against my face.
“Stop,” I whispered.
My voice sounded strange in the darkness. Small. Young. A child's voice.
I lowered my hands and stared at them. I was still in this body. Still trapped in this unfamiliar world. Still the same person who had died on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her former life. And now I was a prisoner. The thought settled over me with a weight I could no longer ignore.
I had spent the journey trying to find a way out. I had watched the road, listened to the men, memorized what little I could about the turns we took, and searched for every opportunity I could find. I had been careful. I had been patient. I had tried to think ahead.
And it hadn't mattered.
There had been no loose knot waiting to be discovered, no careless guard who left a door unlocked, no convenient moment when I could slip away unnoticed. Every time I had thought I might have found an opening, reality had reminded me of how little control I actually possessed. I had tried so hard to notice everything. Yet here I was. Alone in a cell, with nothing but a bed, a bucket, and a locked door between me and whatever waited outside.
I wanted to tell myself that I had simply been unlucky. That I had been drugged, weakened, and placed in a situation no reasonable person could have escaped. All of that was true. But it didn't make the feeling go away. I had failed.
The thought repeated itself in my mind, each time more difficult to dismiss. I had failed to escape the carriage. I had failed to find a way to stop the men. I had failed to protect myself from the consequences of trusting the wrong person. And now I didn't even know what I was supposed to do next. My throat tightened.
I lowered my head and pressed my hands against my eyes, as though I could somehow keep the thoughts from getting through. I wanted to go home. The thought was so childish, so useless, that it hurt more than anything else. I wanted to hear a familiar voice. I wanted to sit somewhere safe and complain about how unfair everything had been. I wanted someone older, stronger, and kinder to tell me that I didn't have to solve every problem by myself.
I wanted my parents.
The memory of them rose in my mind before I could stop it. My mother's smile at graduation. My father's awkward attempt to hide how proud he was. The way they had asked about my future, as though there were still countless possibilities waiting for me to choose between them.
I had been so uncertain then. I had thought I had time. There had been so many things I hadn't decided, so many conversations I had put off, so many ordinary days I had assumed would come. I would never know whether my parents had survived the crash. I would never know whether they had been able to say goodbye to me. I didn't know whether anyone had even realized I was gone.
And I couldn't do anything about it. I had no way to contact them. No way to return to the life I remembered. No way to ask why I had been given another life only to find myself trapped in a situation like this. I had spent my final moments in my old world wondering what I wanted from the future. Now I would have given anything for the chance to have an ordinary one.
My shoulders began to shake.
I tried to hold back the tears, but the effort only made my breathing more ragged. I pressed my hands harder against my face, trying to smother the small, broken sounds that escaped me. There was no one to hear them. That should have made it easier. Instead, it made everything worse.
I was alone.
Truly alone.
There was no one waiting outside the cell who knew me, no one who would notice if I disappeared, no one who had any reason to care what happened to me. The baker had seen an opportunity to settle a debt. The men had seen a delivery to complete. The people in charge of this place would see another captive to prepare and sell. Everyone had a purpose for me. None of them cared what I wanted.
I cried until my face hurt and my throat felt raw. Eventually, even that became exhausting. I lowered my hands and stared at the floor, blinking away the tears. The darkness remained unchanged. The stone walls did not soften. The locked door did not open. Nothing had changed because I was miserable.
Nothing was going to change simply because I wished it would. I hated that. I hated how powerless I was. I hated that all my careful observations and desperate attempts to plan ahead had brought me here. I hated that I had been forced to learn, in such a short time, how easily a person could become a possession when no one was willing to defend her. Most of all, I hated that some small part of me still wanted to believe someone would come and save me.
I knew better than that.
Didn't I?
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. My fingers were cold and slightly damp. I stared at them for a long time, unable to think of anything useful to do. I had survived the carriage ride. I had survived the betrayal. I had made it this far by refusing to give up. But sitting alone in that cell, I found myself wondering what refusing to give up was supposed to mean when I no longer knew what to do.
I had no plan.
No clever trick.
No secret strength waiting to emerge at the moment I needed it most. I was a frightened child in a locked room, and the people outside had all the power. For the first time since waking in this world, I couldn't convince myself that paying attention would be enough. I couldn't turn my fear into a plan or my confusion into a list of questions to answer. I had done everything I knew how to do.
And I had still lost.
I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I didn't know how long I remained like that. Time passed without meaning. The cold crept through my clothes, and my stomach gave an occasional uncomfortable twist. Somewhere beyond the walls, people moved about their business. Their footsteps came and went, sometimes close enough that I could hear the faint scuff of shoes against stone, sometimes distant enough to seem like a memory.
No one came for me.
No one called out.
No one asked if I was hurt. I had never understood how silence could feel oppressive until then. I had thought a prison would be filled with shouting, desperate pleas, and the sounds of people struggling against their confinement. Instead, the place seemed to swallow every sound. Even my own breathing felt intrusive.
Perhaps the other captives had learned that crying accomplished nothing. Perhaps they had already discovered that pleading only exhausted the person doing it. Or perhaps I was the only one here. That possibility frightened me enough to make me lift my head. I listened.
Nothing.
I waited longer.
Still nothing.
I was alone, then.
The realization brought a strange, hollow relief. At least I wouldn't have to look another prisoner in the eyes and wonder whether they were as frightened as I was. Then I wondered how long it would take before I wished for someone else to be there. I looked toward the door. It remained shut.
I could try to force it open, but I already knew how that would end. I could shout for help, but I had no reason to believe anyone would answer. I could sit in the corner and wait, but I didn't know what I was waiting for. I felt as though I had reached the edge of everything I understood about survival. I had always believed that problems could be approached one step at a time. Identify the difficulty. Gather information. Consider the available options. Choose the best course of action.
That was how I had approached university assignments, job applications, and the ordinary uncertainties of adult life. But what happened when every available option was bad? What happened when there was no information to gather, no meaningful choice to make, and no one to turn to? I had no answer.
And the fact that I had no answer frightened me more than the locked door. I lowered my head again. For the first time since I had opened my eyes in this world, I allowed myself to wonder whether I would ever be able to live in it. Not survive a day.
Not escape a single dangerous situation. Actually live. Wake up without fear. Find somewhere to belong. Make friends. Learn the rules of this world without being punished every time I misunderstood them. Could I do that?
Or would every attempt to build something for myself end like this, with someone stronger deciding that my life was worth less than whatever they could gain from it? I had no way to know. The uncertainty settled inside me, heavy and cold. I closed my eyes.
For a little while, I stopped trying to find an answer. I simply sat in the darkness and let myself feel how frightened I was. Eventually, the ache in my legs forced me to move. I couldn't stay curled against the wall forever. My body was cold, my stomach was empty, and whatever strength I had recovered from the drug was beginning to ebb beneath the weight of exhaustion.
I took a shaky breath and pushed myself upright.
“All right,” I whispered.
The words sounded feeble, even to me. I swallowed and tried again.
“All right. Let's see what we're dealing with.”
It was an old habit, I realized. When I didn't know what to do, I talked myself through the problem. Back in my former life, it had helped me get through difficult assignments and moments of uncertainty. Hearing my own voice gave the impression that someone was still there to offer advice. Now it was merely a child's voice echoing in a stone cell. Still, I found myself clinging to the habit. I wiped my face with my sleeve and took another breath.
I couldn't make myself feel hopeful. I couldn't even make myself believe that I would find a way out. But I could examine the room. That much remained within my control. I rose onto my knees, waited for the dizziness to settle, and began to explore.
The cell was even smaller than it had appeared at first. I crossed it in four short steps and reached the opposite wall. The stones were cold beneath my palms, their surfaces uneven and gritty. I pressed my fingers into the gaps between them, searching for loose mortar or a stone that might shift. Nothing moved. I tried another section. Then another.
The walls were solid enough to make the effort feel ridiculous. Even if I found a loose stone, I doubted I would have the strength to do anything useful with it. I continued anyway. The wall turned a corner near the door, leaving a narrow space where the shadows gathered. I crouched and felt along the base, finding only dust and stray pieces of straw. No hidden opening.
No convenient crack leading into another passage. No miraculous weakness waiting for me to discover it. I sat back on my heels. Of course there wasn't.
Why would there be?
I had spent the journey imagining possibilities because imagining them had been the only thing I could do. Somewhere along the way, I had begun treating the existence of a possible escape as though it meant an escape must eventually present itself. But the world wasn't obligated to offer me an opportunity. It didn't have to be fair. It didn't have to leave a door unlocked just because I was frightened and wanted to go home.
I rose and examined the door. It was made of thick wooden planks bound together with dark iron strips. The wood was scarred and discolored, with several dents around the handle. A small viewing hatch sat above the level of my waist, though it was closed at the moment. I gripped the handle and pulled. The door didn't move.
I tried pushing instead.
Nothing.
I leaned my weight against it, but all I accomplished was making my shoulder ache. I stepped back and studied the lock. It was set into a metal plate, the keyhole dark and narrow. I could see no way to reach the mechanism from my side. I tried the handle again, this time lifting it as I pulled. The door remained firmly shut.
I let go.
The handle returned to its original position with a soft clunk. For a moment, I considered calling out. Perhaps someone was standing on the other side. Perhaps there was a guard close enough to hear me. Perhaps, if I asked politely, someone might explain where I was and what was going to happen. The thought was so absurd that I almost laughed.
These people had brought me here to sell me. What reason would they have to explain themselves? Still, I needed information, and there was no other obvious source. I leaned closer to the door.
“Hello?”
My voice sounded small in the narrow space. I waited. Nothing answered.
“Is anyone there?”
Silence.
I pressed my ear against the wood. For several seconds, I heard only the faint hum of distant activity. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. They approached from somewhere down the corridor. My heart began to beat faster.
I straightened, trying to compose myself. I didn't know who was coming, but I didn't want to greet them while huddled on the floor like a frightened animal. The footsteps grew louder. Then they passed the door without stopping. I heard them continue down the corridor, becoming fainter with each step.
I stood motionless until the sound disappeared. A bitter little laugh escaped me. Even the people walking past had somewhere to go. I was the only one expected to remain where I was.
I turned away from the door. The bed stood against the left wall, a narrow wooden frame with a thin mattress laid across it. The mattress looked old and lumpy, its faded covering stained in several places. A coarse blanket had been folded at the foot. I approached it cautiously, as though it might conceal something unpleasant. There was nothing beneath it except dust.
I ran a hand over the mattress. It was thin enough that I could feel the wooden slats beneath the fabric. Still, it was better than the stone floor. I sat on the edge and pressed down with my palms. The frame creaked but held.
A bed.
A bucket.
A locked door.
The cell had been furnished with everything necessary to keep a person alive, but nothing that suggested anyone had given much thought to what living there might feel like. I looked toward the far corner. The bucket stood beside the wall, made of dark wood reinforced with metal bands. A lid rested crookedly on top. I didn't need to look inside to understand its purpose. My face warmed with embarrassment.
Then I felt ashamed of being embarrassed. I was in a prison where people were being held for sale, and I was worried about the indignity of a bucket. But the feeling wasn't entirely rational. I had spent my entire former life in a world where privacy was ordinary, where even the most basic bodily needs could be met without having to think about who might hear or see. Here, those small comforts had become luxuries.
I looked away from the bucket. Near the bed stood a small wooden stool. It was the only other piece of furniture in the cell, and it looked as though it had been placed there simply because someone had found it convenient to do so. I turned it over, checking the underside and the joints. Nothing useful.
I examined the floor again, searching for a loose nail or a sharp fragment of metal. The straw was dry and brittle, scattered thinly across the stone. I sifted through it with my fingers. A small splinter caught beneath one fingernail. I pulled it free and examined it. It was a narrow piece of wood, barely longer than the first joint of my little finger. Its tip was sharp enough to prick my skin, but it bent when I pressed it against my thumb.
I stared at it for several seconds. Could I use it to work at the lock? No. The keyhole was too small, and the splinter would probably break before I accomplished anything. Could I use it as a weapon?
I almost laughed.
I was considering whether a piece of straw-covered wood might serve as a weapon against people who were probably carrying knives. I dropped it. It landed on the floor with a faint tap. That was the extent of my discoveries.
I had searched the walls, examined the door, checked the bed, and looked through the straw. I had found nothing that would help me escape. I was still trapped. I sat down on the mattress and stared at my hands. For a brief moment, I thought about beginning the search again.
Perhaps I had missed something. Perhaps there was a loose stone in a corner I hadn't checked properly, or a weakness in the door hidden beneath the iron bands. The urge to keep searching was almost irresistible. Doing nothing felt like surrender. But I had already examined the room. I could search it again until my fingers bled, and I would still be sitting in the same cell.
I forced myself to remain where I was. There was a difference between refusing to give up and refusing to accept reality. I wasn't sure I understood that difference very well yet. Perhaps I would have to learn.
I drew the thin blanket around my shoulders and tried to warm myself. The fabric smelled of dust and old straw. It was unpleasant, but I pulled it closer anyway. My stomach growled. I pressed a hand against it.
I had no idea when I would be given food. I didn't know whether the people running this place intended to keep me here for hours, days, or longer. I didn't know whether the auction would happen that evening or whether I would be left to wait until the following morning. The men in the carriage had mentioned the Hall of Ledgers, but they hadn't told me anything about its procedures. Perhaps the auction house kept its captives in these cells until a buyer was found. Perhaps it had a schedule. Perhaps I was expected to wait until someone decided I was worth presenting.
The thought made my stomach twist again. I pulled the blanket tighter. I didn't want to think about what might happen if no one bought me. I didn't want to think about what might happen if someone did.
For the moment, I settled for breathing slowly and listening to the faint sounds beyond the door. The silence was never complete. There were footsteps, distant voices, the occasional clatter of metal, and the murmur of people going about their work. Sometimes I heard a door opening or closing. Sometimes I heard the scrape of something heavy being moved across stone. But I heard no shouting.
No one screamed.
No one begged.
I wondered whether the other captives were in cells like mine, listening to the same sounds and asking themselves the same questions. Perhaps they had already learned that nobody answered. I lowered my head. The thought of other prisoners should have made me feel less alone.
Instead, it made the place seem larger and more terrible. I wasn't an unfortunate exception. I wasn't the only person who had been betrayed, captured, and brought here. This was a system. People were taken from somewhere, transported here, kept alive, and prepared for sale. Workers carried out their tasks. Guards watched the doors. Someone kept records. Someone collected payments.
The entire process continued because enough people had decided to participate in it. And I had become part of it. I pulled my knees closer to my chest. I didn't know how long I sat there before I heard the footsteps again.
This time, they approached my door. I lifted my head. The sound was unhurried, accompanied by the faint clink of metal. Whoever was coming didn't seem to be in a hurry. A shadow passed beneath the door.
Then something scraped against the wood. The small hatch near the bottom opened with a short creak. I flinched. A shallow tray slid through the opening and landed on the floor just beyond my feet. The hatch remained open for a moment, revealing a narrow slice of the corridor beyond.
I leaned forward.
“Excuse me?”
A hand was still visible near the edge of the opening. The person on the other side appeared to be adjusting something on a nearby cart.
“Could you tell me where I am?”
The hand disappeared.
I stared at the opening.
“Hello? Please?”
A pause followed.
I heard the faint rattle of dishes.
“Am I going to be staying here long?”
No answer.
The hatch began to close.
“Wait!”
The wooden panel slid shut.
A small clunk echoed through the cell. I remained where I was, staring at the door. That was it. No explanation. No warning. No acknowledgment that I had spoken.
The worker had delivered the tray and moved on to the next task. I couldn't even be certain they had heard me. Perhaps they had heard every word and simply decided that answering wasn't part of the job. I looked down at the tray.
A wooden bowl held a thin, pale soup. Beside it lay a chunk of bread, dark and crusty around the edges. A cup of water stood near the corner, its surface trembling slightly from the movement of the tray. It wasn't much, but it was food. My stomach twisted painfully at the sight. I reached for the tray and pulled it closer.
The soup smelled of boiled vegetables and salt. I could make out a few small pieces of something floating in the broth, though there was no way to tell exactly what they were. I lifted the bowl and took a cautious sip. It was lukewarm. The taste was bland, but it wasn't unpleasant. I swallowed another mouthful, then another, until the warmth began to spread through my stomach.
Only then did I realize how hungry I was. I ate slowly at first, still half expecting the food to be another trap. The memory of the poisoned milk lingered in my mind, and I found myself examining the soup as though I might discover some suspicious ingredient. But I couldn't live on suspicion alone. If I refused every meal because someone might have tampered with it, I would starve before I had a chance to escape.
Besides, whoever had prepared the food had little reason to drug me again. I was already locked in a cell, and they had apparently decided that ropes and a gag were no longer necessary. I ate the rest of the soup. The bread was stale and difficult to chew, but I forced myself to finish it. I drank the water in small sips, trying not to swallow too quickly. When the tray was empty, I sat back and rested my hands in my lap.
My stomach felt less hollow.
It was a small relief, but it was a relief nonetheless. I looked at the door again.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, though I had no idea whether anyone could hear me.
The words sounded ridiculous.
I wasn't thanking the worker for their kindness. There hadn't been any. I was thanking them for leaving me enough food to continue existing. Perhaps that was all gratitude would mean here: appreciation for the bare minimum required to keep me alive. I pushed the tray away and leaned against the wall. I had no idea what came next.
I waited.
At first, I tried to count the footsteps passing in the corridor. After a while, I lost track. I listened for the voices, but most of the conversations were too distant or indistinct to follow. Occasionally, I caught a few words. Something about a delivery. Something about a list.
Someone asking whether a room was ready. The people outside seemed busy, but nothing in their voices suggested urgency. No one was rushing to deal with an emergency. No one seemed concerned that a child had been brought into the building and locked away. They were simply working. I thought about the woman who had given me the bread at the bakery. I wondered whether she would ever think of me again.
Perhaps she would feel guilty.
Perhaps she would tell herself that she had no choice. Perhaps she would forget me entirely. I would never know. I wondered whether the two thugs had delivered other children before me. Whether they had learned to ignore the questions and protests of their captives. Whether they had ever gone home afterward and eaten dinner without thinking about what they had done.
I hoped they had trouble sleeping. The thought was petty, but it was the only revenge I could imagine. I had no way to hurt them. I had no way to make them answer for what they had done. I could only hope that somewhere beneath their practiced indifference, they remained human enough to feel the weight of their actions. Then I remembered the older man's voice.
You think people pay good money for questions? Perhaps I was hoping for something that didn't exist. I drew the blanket around myself and stared at the wall. The food had helped, but it hadn't restored my strength entirely. My limbs still felt heavy, and my head ached whenever I moved too quickly. I suspected that the drug had not fully left my system.
I wanted to sleep.
But the thought of closing my eyes in that cell made me uneasy. What if someone came while I was asleep? What if I woke to find myself somewhere else, bound again, with no memory of how I had arrived? I couldn't bear the thought of losing even more control over what happened to me. So I stayed awake.
I listened.
I waited.
And slowly, the silence began to wear me down. It wasn't loud enough to drown out my thoughts. It didn't distract me or offer anything to focus on. It simply left me alone with everything I had been trying not to think about. My parents. The bakery.
The carriage.
The auction house.
The unknown people who would decide what happened to me. I tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept returning. I was still staring at the door when the footsteps came again. This time, they stopped outside.
A key turned in the lock. I rose so quickly that the room tilted around me. I caught the edge of the bed and steadied myself, my heart pounding as I stared at the door. The lock clicked. Then the handle moved.
For one impossible instant, I thought someone might be coming to release me. The door opened inward. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a small lantern. She appeared to be in her thirties or forties, though the dim light made it difficult to tell. Her hair was pulled back into a practical knot, and she wore a plain dark dress with a pale apron tied around her waist. A small bundle of folded cloth rested beneath one arm.
Her eyes moved over me in a quick, practiced inspection. She looked at my face, my clothes, my bare feet, and the marks around my wrists. Then she stepped into the cell.
“Good,” she said. “You're awake.”
I stared at her.
She turned and closed the door behind her, leaving it unlocked for the moment. The lantern cast a warm circle of light across the stone floor, making the cell seem even smaller than it had before.
“Can you stand?”
I opened my mouth.
Several questions rushed to my tongue at once. Who are you? Where am I? What are you going to do with me?
Instead, I managed only, “Where—”
“Can you stand?” she repeated.
Her tone wasn't harsh. If anything, she sounded mildly impatient, as though she were trying to finish a task before the end of her shift. I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Then stand up, please.”
I hesitated.
She glanced at me again.
“I don't have all day.”
There was no threat in her voice. No anger. She sounded exactly like someone asking a child to move aside in a crowded corridor. I hated how much that unsettled me. Slowly, I pushed myself upright. My knees trembled, and I had to place one hand against the wall to steady myself. The woman watched without offering help.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
She lifted the bundle of cloth slightly.
“I'm responsible for preparing the people brought here before they're presented at auction. You'll need to be cleaned up, and I'll have to find something suitable for you to wear.”
I stared at her.
She had said it so casually that it took a moment for the words to make sense.
“Presented at…?”
“The auction,” she said, as though reminding me of something obvious. “Yes.”
My throat tightened.
She didn't seem to notice.
“Come along. We'll get you washed and dressed. I have others to attend to afterward.”
She turned toward the door and opened it again. I didn't move. The woman looked back at me.
“Well?”
I stared at her, unable to find the words I needed.
“You're going to sell me?”
The question came out as a whisper. For the first time, she paused. Not for long. Just long enough to glance at me with an expression that suggested I had asked something inconvenient.
“That's what you're here for, isn't it?”
She didn't sound cruel.
She didn't sound pleased, either.
She sounded as though she were confirming that a parcel had been sent to the correct address. I felt the room tilt beneath me. The woman adjusted the bundle of cloth beneath her arm.
“Come on, now. We need to get you ready.”
I looked at the open doorway behind her. It was the first time since waking that I had seen a door open without immediately hearing it slam shut. I could try to run. The thought appeared so suddenly that I almost acted on it.
The woman was standing between me and the corridor, but she wasn't particularly large. If I pushed past her, perhaps I could get outside. Perhaps I could find a staircase, a courtyard, or another door leading to the street. Then what? I didn't know the layout of the building. I didn't know how many guards were nearby. I didn't know whether the corridor led to another locked door or directly into the arms of someone who would drag me back.
I could make it a few steps. Maybe ten. Then I would be caught. The woman watched me, waiting.
I hated that she seemed so certain I would obey. I hated that she was probably right. I lowered my gaze and stepped toward the door. She moved aside to let me pass.
“Mind your step,” she said. “The floor's uneven near the corner.”
I stared at her.
She had just told me to be careful of the floor. Not because she cared what happened to me, I realized, but because she didn't want me stumbling and making her work more difficult. The thought made my chest ache. I walked into the corridor.
It was narrow, with stone walls and a low ceiling. Lanterns hung at intervals, their light wavering against the uneven masonry. The air was warmer than it had been in the cell, though it smelled of damp stone, soap, and something faintly metallic. Several wooden doors lined the corridor. Some were closed. Others stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of dark interiors. I slowed as we passed the first one.
From behind it came a faint rustling sound. Someone was inside. I turned my head. The woman noticed.
“Keep moving, please.”
I obeyed.
We passed another door.
Then another.
I listened for voices, for movement, for any sign that someone might be willing to speak to me. But the corridor remained quiet. If there were other captives behind those doors, they weren't making themselves known. I wondered whether they were asleep. Or whether they had learned, as I had, that no one answered questions. The woman led me around a corner and through another doorway. Beyond it lay a small room furnished with a wooden stool, a basin, a large tub, and a low table covered with folded cloths.
A fire burned in a small brazier near the wall. The room was warmer than the corridor, and steam rose faintly from the tub. I stopped at the threshold. The woman set down her bundle and lantern.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside.
She closed the door behind us, then crossed to the table and began arranging her supplies.
“Take off your clothes and put them there,” she said, pointing to the stool. “You can wash yourself, but I'll help with your hair. When you're finished, I'll get you dressed.”
I stared at her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Is there a problem?”
I wanted to say that the entire situation was a problem. I wanted to tell her that I didn't want to be bathed or dressed for an auction. I wanted to ask why she could speak about selling people with the same indifference another person might use to discuss mending a torn sleeve. But the words remained trapped in my throat. What would it accomplish?
She would probably tell me that it wasn't her decision. That she was only doing her job. That if I didn't cooperate, the process would take longer. Perhaps she would be right. I looked at the tub. The water was clear, with a few wisps of steam rising from its surface. A small bar of soap sat beside it, along with a clean cloth.
For a moment, the sight made me feel almost grateful. I could wash. I could remove the dirt from my skin and the stale smell of the carriage from my clothes. I could feel clean again, even if only for a little while. Then I remembered why the bath had been prepared.
I wasn't being given an opportunity to care for myself. I was being prepared for someone else to examine. My stomach twisted.
“Do I have to?” I asked.
The woman sighed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you're going to be presented, and people expect a certain standard.”
She said it while sorting through the folded garments, not even looking at me.
“A clean appearance makes things easier for everyone.”
I stared at her.
“Everyone?”
She finally glanced up.
“Yes. Everyone.”
Then she returned to her work. I understood. She didn't mean me. She meant the auction house, the buyers, and the people responsible for completing the sale. A clean dress and tidy hair would make the proceedings easier. I would be less likely to draw attention for the wrong reasons, and the woman could finish her work without being asked to repeat it.
I was part of a process. My comfort mattered only when it affected the process. I looked away.
“Fine,” I whispered.
The woman nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Good. The water's warm enough, so don't waste it.”
I turned toward the tub.
My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my ragged shirt. I had never imagined that something as ordinary as washing could become another reminder of how little control I possessed over my own life. Yet there was no point in delaying. I removed my clothes and placed them on the stool, trying not to look at the woman while I did so. She showed no particular interest in my discomfort. She was busy preparing the soap and checking the temperature of the water.
That, somehow, made it worse.
I had expected cruelty.
I had expected threats, insults, or the kind of behavior that would make it easy to hate the person standing in front of me. Instead, she treated me as a task. I stepped into the tub. The water was warm enough to make me gasp.
For several seconds, I stood motionless, letting the heat spread through my legs. My muscles had been tense for so long that the warmth felt almost painful. I lowered myself into the water and began washing. The dirt came away slowly. I scrubbed my arms, my neck, and my face, watching the water cloud with dust and grime. I washed my hair as best I could, though the tangles made the process uncomfortable. The woman waited until I had finished before approaching with a cloth.
“Turn around,” she said.
I obeyed.
She began working through my hair with a comb, starting at the ends and moving upward. Her movements were efficient, and she showed little patience for knots. When the comb caught, I winced.
“Hold still.”
“Sorry.”
She continued without answering.
I bit my lip and tried not to move. The comb caught again. I flinched.
“I said, hold still.”
“I'm trying.”
“Then try a little harder.”
Her tone was not especially harsh, but there was no sympathy in it, either. I stared at the wall. She worked through the knots one by one, occasionally pausing to separate a tangled section with her fingers. The process took longer than I expected. My scalp hurt, and I could feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, though I wasn't sure whether the pain was responsible. Eventually, she stepped back.
“There. That's better.”
I touched my hair cautiously.
It felt cleaner, lighter, and far less tangled than before. The woman handed me a cloth.
“Dry yourself. I'll get the dress.”
I did as I was told. The clean cloth felt soft against my skin. I used it to dry my arms, legs, and hair, then wrapped it around myself while the woman returned to the table. She unfolded a dress. It was simple, made from pale brown fabric with a modest neckline and sleeves that reached almost to the wrists. The material was plain but clean, with a narrow ribbon tied around the waist. It wasn't the sort of clothing anyone would wear to a celebration, but it was far better than the ragged garments I had arrived in.
The woman held it up, examining the seams.
“This should do.”
She placed it on the stool.
“Put it on.”
I stared at the dress.
“Is this mine?”
“For the auction.”
The answer came so quickly that I felt foolish for asking. I put it on. The fabric was a little loose around my shoulders, but the ribbon could be tightened at the waist. The hem fell just below my knees, and the sleeves covered the marks left by the ropes. The woman adjusted the ribbon, straightened the collar, and smoothed the fabric over my shoulders.
Then she stepped back to examine me.
“Turn around.”
I turned.
She inspected the back of the dress, adjusted a crease near the waist, and nodded.
“Good enough.”
She gathered my old clothes and folded them into a rough bundle.
“Those will be kept with your things.”
“My things?”
She glanced at me.
“Whatever you brought with you.”
I looked at the bundle.
There was almost nothing in it. A ragged shirt, a worn skirt, and whatever scraps of dignity I had managed to preserve.
“Will I get them back?”
“That's not for me to decide.”
She set the bundle aside.
I watched her return to the table, where she collected a small ribbon and began arranging my hair. She tied it back from my face, leaving the rest to fall neatly over my shoulders. The movements were practiced and quick. She didn't ask whether I liked the dress. She didn't ask whether it was comfortable. She didn't ask my name. I realized she probably didn't know it.
Perhaps she had been given a number instead. Perhaps she had been told only that a young girl had arrived and needed to be prepared. I wondered whether anyone in the building knew who I was. Not the name of the child whose body I inhabited. Not the name I had carried in my former life. Me.
Alex.
The person who had lived through university, who had stood at graduation with no clear idea of the future, who had died in a car crash and awakened in a world that made no sense. Would any of that matter to these people? No. To them, I was a girl in a plain dress, with clean hair and no one to claim her.
I was someone who could be presented on a stage. The woman finished tying the ribbon and stepped back.
“There. Much better.”
I looked down at myself.
I was clean.
My hair was neat.
My dress was presentable.
I looked less like a homeless child and more like someone who might belong in a respectable household. The transformation should have felt comforting. Instead, I felt as though I had been made into a more acceptable version of my own helplessness. I had been cleaned, dressed, and arranged for the convenience of strangers.
And the woman who had done it seemed entirely satisfied with her work. She picked up the lantern.
“Come along. We're finished here.”
I didn't move.
She turned toward me.
“What's the matter now?”
I looked at her, searching her face for some sign that she might understand.
“Why are you doing this?”
She frowned.
“Doing what?”
“Preparing me.”
She considered the question for a moment, then shrugged.
“Because it's my job.”
I stared at her.
“Don't you think it's wrong?”
The words escaped before I could stop them. For the first time, the woman looked genuinely annoyed.
“That's not my concern.”
She opened the door.
“I don't make the rules, and I don't decide who gets bought. I make sure the people brought here are presentable. That's all.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without anger or embarrassment. Perhaps she believed it. Perhaps she had repeated those words to herself so many times that she no longer questioned them. I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell her that a person couldn't separate herself from the harm she helped cause simply by calling it a job. But I couldn't find the words. And even if I had, I doubted they would have changed anything. She was already waiting in the doorway.
“Come on.”
I followed her into the corridor. The lantern light moved across the stone walls as we walked. The air seemed colder now that I was wearing clean clothes, and I instinctively folded my arms over my chest. We passed several more doors. One stood open, revealing a small room with shelves and folded garments. Another had a narrow window set high in the wall. I caught a glimpse of a wooden staircase at the end of a passage, but the woman turned before we reached it.
We were moving deeper into the building. I tried to remember the route. Left at the first corner. Straight along the narrow corridor.
Right through a doorway.
Another passage.
A short flight of steps.
I repeated the sequence silently, even though I knew it might be useless. It was something to hold on to. The woman didn't speak as we walked. She seemed entirely occupied with the task ahead, occasionally shifting the lantern to avoid brushing it against the walls. I wondered how many people she had prepared before me.
Dozens?
Hundreds?
How many had stood where I stood now, wearing borrowed clothes and trying to understand what was happening to them? I wondered whether any of them had escaped. The question remained unanswered as we reached the staircase. The woman climbed first, moving with the easy confidence of someone who knew the building well. I followed, placing my feet carefully on the worn wooden steps.
At the top, we passed through another door. The sounds of the building changed immediately. The quiet murmur of distant work gave way to voices, footsteps, and the occasional burst of laughter. The air smelled of wax, perfume, and food. Somewhere nearby, dishes clinked together. I slowed.
We were no longer in the part of the building where the cells were kept. This was a different world. The corridor was wider, its walls covered in dark wooden panels. Lamps hung from iron brackets, casting warm light over the polished floor. Several people moved between doorways, carrying papers, boxes, and trays. They looked like ordinary workers.
One man hurried past with a stack of ledgers tucked beneath his arm. A woman carrying folded cloth nodded to the person beside her. Two men stood near a doorway, speaking quietly about a discrepancy in a list. No one appeared alarmed. No one looked as though they were preparing for something extraordinary. The auction house was simply going about its business.
I felt my stomach tighten.
The woman continued walking.
“Stay close,” she said. “And don't touch anything.”
I obeyed.
We passed through another doorway and entered a room with several benches arranged along the walls. A few people sat there, waiting. My steps slowed. They were captives. I knew it immediately.
Some were adults, others younger. They wore clean but plain clothes, and most kept their eyes lowered. One man stared at the floor with his hands clasped between his knees. A woman sat with her shoulders hunched, her face expressionless. Near the far wall, a boy who looked a little older than me watched the doorway with red-rimmed eyes. Nobody spoke. The silence was so complete that I could hear the faint rustle of the woman's dress as she moved.
I looked from one face to another, searching for something familiar. Fear. Anger. Despair.
I found all three, but rarely in a form I could easily recognize. Some people looked frightened. Others seemed too exhausted to react. A few stared at nothing at all, as though their minds had withdrawn somewhere the auction house couldn't reach. No one asked who I was. No one asked where I had come from. They simply watched me enter, then looked away.
I felt a sudden, desperate urge to speak to them. To ask whether they knew where we were. To ask whether anyone had escaped. To ask what would happen when we were taken from this room.
But the woman guided me toward an empty space along the wall.
“Wait here.”
I turned to her.
“How long?”
“Not long.”
“What happens after this?”
“You'll be taken into the hall when it's your turn.”
“And then?”
She gave me a tired look.
“Then you'll be presented.”
She adjusted the bundle of cloth beneath her arm.
“Someone will explain the rest.”
I wanted to ask who.
I wanted to ask whether I would be allowed to leave if no one wanted to buy me. I wanted to ask whether I would ever see the outside again. Instead, I stood where she had told me to stand. She moved toward another doorway, already looking past me toward whatever task awaited her next.
I watched her go.
She didn't look back.
For a moment, I felt a strange sense of betrayal, even though I had never expected kindness from her. Perhaps it was the way she had spoken to me, the ordinary tone she had used while washing my hair and adjusting my dress. Perhaps some small part of me had hoped that a person who had spent so much time tending to me might eventually remember that I was a person. But she had finished her work.
And now she was leaving.
I lowered my eyes.
The room remained quiet.
I could hear people breathing, shifting in their seats, occasionally swallowing or clearing their throats. No one cried out. No one demanded to know why they had been brought here. The silence felt heavier than any scream. I understood then that the people around me were not necessarily calm. They might simply have learned that there was nothing to gain by showing their fear.
I thought of my own tears in the cell. I had cried because I was frightened, because I had no plan, because I wanted someone to come and tell me that everything would be all right. I still wanted those things. But I could see that no one in this room was going to provide them.
I wrapped my arms around myself and waited. The waiting was worse than I expected. In the cell, at least, I had been able to pretend that there was still something I could do. I could examine the walls, test the door, or listen for useful information. Here, surrounded by other captives, I had no task to occupy my hands or distract my thoughts. I could only wait for someone to decide what happened to me.
A door opened on the opposite side of the room. A man in a dark vest stepped inside, carrying a sheet of parchment. He glanced down at it, then surveyed the people seated along the walls.
“Everyone ready?”
No one answered.
He seemed unconcerned.
“Good. We'll proceed in order. When your number is called, stand up and follow the attendant. Don't make things difficult, and we can all get through this without wasting the afternoon.”
He checked his parchment.
“Fourteen.”
A woman near the far end of the room rose slowly. The man pointed toward the doorway.
“Come along.”
She followed him without a word. The door closed behind them. Nobody moved. I stared at the empty space where she had been sitting.
A number.
They were identifying the captives by number. I wondered whether the woman had been given a number when she arrived, or whether it had been assigned when she was entered into the auction house's records. I wondered whether her name appeared anywhere on that parchment. Perhaps it did. Perhaps someone had written it down, only for it to become irrelevant the moment she entered the building.
The man returned several minutes later.
“Fifteen.”
Another captive stood.
This time, a thin man with a bandage around his forehead. He hesitated before following the attendant, looking back once toward the others. No one said anything to him. The door closed. I swallowed.
I didn't know what happened after they left the room. Perhaps they were taken directly to the auction hall. Perhaps someone inspected them again, checked their clothing, or asked questions about their health. I didn't know whether they would return. I didn't know whether I wanted them to. The man continued down the list.
“Sixteen.”
A young woman rose.
“Seventeen.”
An older man.
“Eighteen.”
A boy who looked no older than twelve. Each time a number was called, someone stood and followed the attendant through the door. Each time the door closed, the remaining captives settled back into silence. I tried to keep track. Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
It was an absurd thing to focus on, but counting gave my thoughts something to hold. I could not change the order in which the people were taken, and I had no idea where I stood in the sequence, but at least I could understand what was happening around me. The man glanced down at his parchment again.
“Nineteen.”
A girl stood near the opposite wall. She was small, with dark hair tied loosely behind her head. Her clothes were cleaner than mine but just as plain. For a moment, she looked around the room as though searching for someone who might tell her what to do. Then she followed the attendant. I watched the door close behind her.
My hands had begun to tremble again. I pressed them together, trying to hide it. I didn't want to be called. I didn't want to stand in front of a room full of strangers while someone described me as though I were an item for sale.
I didn't want to discover what sort of people came to an auction house like this, or what they considered valuable, or what they expected from the people they purchased. But the list was moving forward. Eventually, my number would be called. And then I would have to stand up.
The man looked at his parchment again.
“Twenty.”
An attendant entered, whispered something to him, and pointed toward the corridor. The man frowned.
“Not yet. She's still being prepared.”
He checked another page.
“Right. Move twenty-one ahead, then. We'll take the next one after that.”
The attendant nodded and left.
I stared at the parchment.
They had a list of us. They had arranged us into an order, written down numbers, and decided when each of us would be brought into the hall. Somewhere in the building, someone had probably recorded the circumstances of our arrival, our approximate ages, and whatever other details might be useful to a buyer. I wondered whether my name had been entered. Alex.
The name felt distant, almost unreal. It belonged to the person I had been before the crash, the person who had graduated university and stood in front of a camera with a smile she hadn't quite known how to wear. I had carried that name into this world because I had nothing else to call myself. But here, it had no place.
No one had asked me for it. No one had written it down. If the auction house had assigned me a number, then perhaps that was all I would be to them. A number on a page.
A line in a ledger.
A child waiting to be sold. I closed my eyes. I wanted to hold on to my name. I wanted to remember that I had once been someone whose life was not defined by the opinions of strangers. Someone who had been loved, even if I didn't know whether the people who loved me were still alive.
I wanted to believe that the memories inside my head were enough to make me more than the person these people saw. But I was frightened that, given enough time, even those memories might begin to fade. I didn't know how long I could remain myself in a place like this. The thought was more frightening than I wanted to admit.
“Next.”
I opened my eyes.
The man with the parchment had turned toward me. For a moment, I didn't understand. He looked down at the page, then back at me.
“You. The little girl in the brown dress.”
My mouth went dry.
“Stand up, please.”
I remained seated.
Not because I intended to disobey him, but because my body seemed to have forgotten how to move. The man sighed.
“We haven't got all day.”
I pushed my hands against the bench and stood. My knees trembled. I straightened as much as I could, trying to make myself look less frightened than I felt. The man checked the parchment.
“Good. Come with me.”
I followed him toward the doorway. As I passed the other captives, I caught a glimpse of their faces. Some looked away. Others watched me with expressions I couldn't interpret.
The boy who had been sitting near the far wall lifted his head. Our eyes met for a brief moment. I wanted to ask him whether he knew what happened in the hall. I wanted to ask whether he had any advice. But I kept walking.
The attendant opened the door, and the sound of voices grew louder. I stepped through. Beyond it lay a short corridor that ended at a pair of tall wooden doors. The man with the parchment walked ahead of me, speaking briefly to another attendant who stood beside them.
“Next presentation,” he said.
The attendant nodded and opened one of the doors. Warm light spilled into the corridor. I heard laughter. Not nervous laughter. Not the thin, broken sound of someone trying to convince themselves that everything was fine.
Ordinary laughter.
A man said something I couldn't make out, and several people chuckled in response. Someone else called for a drink. The sound of a glass being set down against a table followed. I stopped at the threshold. The man behind me gave a small nudge between my shoulders.
“Go on.”
I stepped into the hall.
For a moment, I couldn't process what I was seeing. The room was much larger than I had expected, with a high ceiling supported by dark wooden beams. Lamps and chandeliers cast warm light over the polished floor. Rows of seats faced a raised wooden platform at the far end, and several small tables had been arranged along the sides of the room. The audience was already gathered. Men and women sat in comfortable chairs, talking quietly among themselves. Some wore simple but well-made clothing, while others were dressed in expensive fabrics and jewelry. A few held cups or glasses. Several glanced toward the entrance when I appeared, then returned to their conversations.
No one looked shocked to see a child being brought into the room. No one looked as though anything unusual was happening. They looked like people waiting for a performance to begin. I felt cold despite the warmth of the hall.
The attendant guided me toward the side of the stage. A man stood on the platform, speaking to a small group near the front row. He was dressed in a dark blue coat with silver buttons, and his hair was neatly combed away from his face. He looked to be in his forties, with bright eyes and an easy smile. When he noticed us, he turned toward the audience.
“Ah! It seems our next guest has arrived.”
His voice carried easily through the hall, warm and lively without becoming loud. A few people looked up. The man spread his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. I promise the wait will be worth it. We have a rather interesting selection today, and I would hate for anyone to miss the opportunity to find something—or someone—suited to their particular tastes.”
A ripple of amusement passed through the audience. He smiled as though he had just made a harmless joke at a dinner party.
“Now, before we continue, a quick reminder that all purchases are final once the appropriate paperwork has been completed. Our staff will be happy to assist with arrangements afterward, and if anyone requires clarification regarding the terms of a sale, please speak to one of our attendants rather than attempting to negotiate from your seat.”
A few people chuckled.
The man tilted his head.
“Yes, Master Harrow, that means you. We remember what happened last time.”
The audience laughed more openly.
A well-dressed man near the front raised his cup in mock surrender. The host grinned.
“Excellent. It's always reassuring to know that our regular patrons remain committed to making my work more difficult.”
He turned back toward me.
The smile remained on his face, but I felt the full weight of his attention settle over me.
“And now, let us move on.”
He gestured toward the stage.
“Bring her up, please.”
The attendant placed a hand lightly against my shoulder and guided me toward the steps. I looked at them. Three wooden steps. That was all.
I had climbed stairs countless times in my former life. I had walked onto stages for school presentations and stood in front of rooms full of people without feeling as though my entire future depended on what happened next. But these steps felt taller than they were. My legs refused to move. The attendant leaned closer.
“Up you go.”
I climbed the first step.
Then the second.
Then the third.
I was on the stage.
The audience sat below me, their faces illuminated by warm light. I could see them clearly now: the fine stitching on their coats, the rings on their fingers, the expressions of mild interest or polite boredom as they waited for the host to speak. Some were watching me. Others were still talking to their neighbors. I wanted to disappear.
I wanted to run back through the doors, down the corridor, and into the darkness of the cell. I wanted the cold stone floor beneath my feet and the thin blanket around my shoulders. I wanted the silence that had frightened me only minutes earlier. At least there, no one had been looking at me. The host approached with a pleasant smile.
“Now, then. Let's see what we have here.”
He looked me over with the calm attention of someone inspecting a new arrival at a shop. I fought the urge to step backward.
“Small, certainly,” he said, turning slightly toward the audience. “Young, as you can see. Human, healthy enough by our preliminary assessment, and with no documented family or guardian accompanying her.”
A few people leaned forward.
He continued in the same easy tone.
“She arrived without papers establishing her identity or any claim of ownership. Her background is unknown, and no guardian has come forward to claim responsibility for her.”
No guardian.
The words struck me harder than I expected. I wanted to shout that I had parents. I wanted to tell him that there had been people who loved me, that I had belonged somewhere before this world had torn me away from them. But what would that change?
He wasn't asking about the life I remembered. He was announcing the information the auction house had recorded. And according to those records, I was nobody. The host smiled at the audience.
“Of course, the lack of documentation can be inconvenient in some circumstances, but it also means that our buyers will not have to spend time untangling complicated arrangements with relatives or guardians. Our staff can explain the details of the transfer and any applicable restrictions after the sale.”
A man in the second row asked a question. The host turned toward him.
“Her age? Approximately eight years, according to our assessment. We cannot provide an exact date of birth.”
He glanced back at me.
“Though I suspect she would be happy to correct us if she knew it herself.”
A few people laughed.
I stood motionless.
I didn't know whether they expected me to smile or speak. I didn't know whether the host was deliberately trying to make me seem less threatening, more appealing, or simply easier to sell. I only knew that they were discussing my life as though I were not standing among them. The host continued.
“She has no known trade skills or formal training, which is hardly surprising given her age. Her health will need to be monitored, and she may require time to adjust to a new household. Still, with proper care and instruction, there is certainly room for improvement.”
He spoke as though he were describing a young animal that had not yet been trained. My hands curled at my sides. I wanted to tell him that I had completed university. I wanted to tell him that I could read, write, reason, and think. That I had lived a life full of experiences he couldn't imagine, that I understood far more than my small body suggested.
But the words would have sounded absurd. And even if he believed me, I doubted it would help. The people in the audience were not here to discover who I was. They were here to decide what I was worth.
The host stepped to one side, giving the audience a clearer view.
“Now, I would ask that everyone remember our usual guidelines. Please direct questions through me or the attendants, and refrain from approaching the stage until the sale has been completed. We have had some rather enthusiastic patrons in the past, and while I appreciate a lively audience, I do prefer to keep my paperwork intact.”
Laughter again.
He smiled broadly.
“Very good. I believe that covers the essentials.”
He turned toward me.
For the first time, his expression shifted—not into cruelty, but into a kind of professional curiosity.
“Now, little one. Stand up straight for us, would you?”
I was already standing straight.
I forced myself to straighten further.
“Excellent,” he said. “Much better.”
He looked back at the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present our next offering.”
The word struck me like a slap. Offering. He spread his arms, welcoming the audience's attention.
“A young human girl, approximately eight years of age, with no known guardian and no established family ties. A blank slate, one might say, ready for a new beginning under the right care.”
The audience grew quieter.
I could hear the faint rustle of clothing as people shifted in their seats. Someone tapped a finger against the edge of a table. A woman near the front tilted her head, studying me with an expression that might have been curiosity. The host's smile widened.
“So, shall we see who might be interested in giving this young lady a place in their household?”
I stared at the faces before me. Some looked kind. Some looked indifferent. Some seemed amused.
I couldn't tell which expressions were genuine, which were masks, and which belonged to people who had already decided what they wanted from me. I searched for a single face that looked as though it understood what was happening. I found none. The host raised one hand.
“Shall we begin?”
The room settled into silence.
I stood beneath the warm lights, dressed in a clean garment that wasn't mine, with my hair neatly arranged and my hands hanging uselessly at my sides. A short while ago, I had been sitting alone in a dark cell, wondering whether I would ever find a way out. Now I was standing on a stage while strangers prepared to bid on my future. There was no door within reach.
No loose knot to work free. No passing cart to create a distraction. No opening to take advantage of. I had watched, listened, and tried to prepare for everything I could imagine.
And still, I had ended up here. The host smiled at his audience. I looked out at the people who had gathered to decide my fate, and for the first time, I understood that the auction had already begun long before I stepped onto the stage. It had begun when the baker decided my life could settle her debt.
It had continued when the two men carried me through the city without fear of being stopped. It had continued when the worker ignored my questions, when the woman washed my hair, and when the man with the parchment called me forward by a number instead of a name. Every step had brought me closer to this moment. And now there was nowhere left to hide.
I stood still as the host drew breath to announce the opening bid. For once, I had nothing to say. I could only wait to hear what someone thought I was worth.