Mara did not cry when the car stopped.
She noticed everything instead,the way the engine idled too long, the way her father's hand stayed on the steering wheel as though he had forgotten how to let go, the way her mother stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
The silence inside the car was thick, heavy with words that had been spoken too many times already.
"This is Aunt Ruth's house," her father said at last.
Mara already knew.
She had memorized the route weeks ago, tracing it again and again in her head at night when sleep refused to come. Still, she nodded, because nodding was easier than speaking.
The house stood behind a short iron gate, its paint peeling in long tired strips.
The windows were shut tight, curtains drawn even though the sun was still high. It looked like a place that did not expect joy,and did not want it.
Mara adjusted the strap of her backpack on her shoulder.
The fabric was thin and worn, but inside it carried the few things she valued most: her notebooks, two textbooks she had read so many times the pages were soft, and a grey sweater that still smelled faintly of her mother's perfume.
She clung to it like proof that she had once belonged somewhere.
Her mother finally turned around.
"Remember what we talked about," she said quietly.
"Be respectful. Don't argue. Focus on your studies."
Mara opened her mouth, then closed it again.
What she wanted to ask was simple and terrifying all at once: When are you coming back for me?
But she had learned that some questions made adults uncomfortable, and uncomfortable adults tended to disappear faster.
"I will," Mara said instead.
The gate creaked loudly as her father pushed it open.
The sound made something twist in Mara's chest. It felt final, like punctuation at the end of a sentence she hadn't finished reading.
Aunt Ruth opened the door before they knocked.
She was taller than Mara remembered, her posture stiff, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
Her eyes moved over Mara slowly, assessing her the way someone might inspect a cracked plate,deciding whether it was still useful.
"So this is her,"
Aunt Ruth said.
Not welcome. Not hello. Just that.
"Yes," her father replied, forcing a smile. "She's a good child. Very intelligent."
Aunt Ruth's mouth tightened. "Intelligent children are often troublesome."
Mara lowered her eyes.
Her mother stepped forward and hugged her quickly, almost awkwardly, as if she were afraid of holding on too long. "We'll call," she whispered. "Be good."
Then they were gone.
No lingering glance. No hesitation. The car pulled away, dust rising behind it, and within seconds it disappeared around the bend in the road.
Mara stood very still.
She waited for something to happen,for panic, for screaming, for tears,but nothing came.
Just a hollow feeling spreading slowly through her chest, like an empty room filling with echo.
Aunt Ruth cleared her throat. "Inside."
The house smelled of disinfectant and something sour beneath it.
Everything was spotless,too spotless. The chairs were arranged neatly. The cushions looked untouched.
The air felt controlled, as though disorder itself was a punishable offense.
A clock ticked loudly on the wall.
"You will wake up at five every morning,"
Aunt Ruth said, pacing as she spoke. "You will clean the house before school. You will cook when I tell you.
You will not touch what does not belong to you."
Mara nodded.
"You will not embarrass me," Aunt Ruth continued. "And you will remember that you are here because I allowed it."
"Yes, ma'am," Mara said.
Her room was at the back of the house.
It was small and windowless, with a thin mattress on the floor and nothing else. No desk. No chair.
No mirror. The walls were bare, the air faintly stale, as if the room had been forgotten for years.
"This is enough for you," Aunt Ruth said flatly.
The door closed behind her with a sharp click.
That night, Mara lay awake staring into the darkness. The mattress pressed against her ribs, too thin to be comfortable.
The house made unfamiliar noises,pipes groaning, floorboards shifting, the clock ticking endlessly in the distance.
She pulled the grey sweater around herself and breathed in slowly.
She told herself she would be fine.
She told herself this was temporary.
But deep inside, a quiet voice whispered something else,something colder and more honest.
You are on your own now.
At five the next morning, Aunt Ruth's voice cut through the house like a blade.
"Wake up."
Mara rose immediately.
Her hands moved automatically as she scrubbed floors and washed dishes, her body learning obedience faster than her mind could catch up.
She worked in silence, afraid of drawing attention to herself.
When she finished, Aunt Ruth inspected her work with narrowed eyes.
"You missed a spot."
"I'll clean it again,"
Mara said quickly.
"You should have done it properly the first time."
The slap came suddenly.
Mara staggered but didn't fall. She didn't cry. She simply lowered her head and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Aunt Ruth sniffed. "See that you improve."
On the walk to school later that morning, Mara touched her cheek lightly. It still stung, but she welcomed the pain,it anchored her to reality, reminded her that this was not a dream.
As she stepped through the gates of Ridgeway Secondary School, surrounded by noise and laughter, Mara made a quiet promise to herself.
She would survive this place.
She didn't know how yet.
But she would.