Chapter 5: Hope in a Pin
I stared at the wall, my father's words echoing in my head: "My brave little girl."
Was I brave? I didn't feel it. My chest ached with helplessness, my mind scrambling for a way to save Mom and me. Every idea I reached for slipped through my fingers like smoke. Nothing came.
The masked man's men brought food, as promised—a cold plate of meat and bread. The smell was sour, almost metallic, and I didn't trust it. Mom didn't either. We stared at it until one of them scoffed and took a bite himself. Only then did we eat, silently, each bite heavier than the last. Not because of the food, but because of the weight pressing down on us.
We needed strength—for a fight, an escape, something.
After the plates were cleared, they tied us up again. Rough, too tight, like they enjoyed watching our skin redden. The door clicked shut. Footsteps faded. Silence returned.
And then it hit me.
Dad's voice. His lessons. The way his hands had carefully wrapped mine around a rope once and whispered, "Feel it. Don't fight it. Outsmart it."
I could almost hear him now. Calm. Steady. Certain.
I twisted against the ropes, ignoring the sting as they scraped my skin. Inch by inch, they loosened. My heart pounded so loud I thought the guards would hear. One more tug—
Snap.
The ropes slid off. My hands were free. I was free.
"Mom," I whispered, rushing to her. I worked on her binds with fingers that didn't feel like my own. She stared at me, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"You're your father's daughter," she murmured, pulling me into a trembling hug. "He'd be so proud of you."
For the first time since Dad was taken, the air didn't feel so heavy. We could breathe.
"Our only chance," Mom said, her voice low and urgent. She scanned the room—walls, corners, ceiling—for any way out. Her eyes stopped at the door.
I went to it.
Dad had taught me how to pick a lock. Once. Just once. But I remembered the way his hands had moved, the way he said, "Even locked doors can open if you're patient."
On the floor, something caught the light—a hairpin, small, bent, and forgotten.
I knelt before the door, my hands trembling as I whispered, "Please, Dad. Help me."
The pin slid into the lock. I twisted, wiggled, held my breath. Nothing. My fingers slipped. I tried again.
Click.
"Ding," I breathed, too shocked to smile. "Mom!" My voice was barely a whisper, but she heard it. "I did it. The door's unlocked."
Her eyes widened. Hope lit her face like a flame. "Then we go. Now."
She grabbed my hand—tight, fierce, like she wasn't letting go. We eased the door open, just a sliver. No footsteps. No guards. Just a long hallway wrapped in shadows.
And beneath it all, faint but rising—that hum again. Low. Eerie. Like a whisper crawling up my spine.
But I didn't stop.
Because for the first time, we had a chance.