CAGED

CHAPTER 1- IF THE WALLS COULD SPEAK, THEY'D SCREAM

She used to count the seconds between each breath.
It was the only rhythm that felt real when everything else around her was performative. The gleaming walls. The curated décor. The pristine floors. Nothing out of place.

But beneath the shine, tension pulsed-quiet, coiled, waiting to strike.

Unlike him.

Unlike the man, she was forced to call her husband.

The nights blurred-sometimes his voice, sometimes her father's. Didn't matter. The cruelty was recycled. Different name, same soul. His hands had never been gentle, but it was the silence that hurt the most. The silence that followed each demand, each insult. That cold, suffocating silence that pressed in on her like the walls of a cage.

And her mother's voice?

Soft. Ghostly. Always ending with, "Just stay quiet. He's still your husband."

No matter what he did, no matter how he hurt her, the only thing her mother ever said was to stay silent, to keep quiet, to pretend it wasn't happening.

She used to cry. Then she stopped. Then she started again-but this time, on the inside, where no one could hear.
Where no one wanted to hear.

Every morning, she woke with breathless dread, like her body already knew it had survived something it shouldn't have.

There were days she wondered if she'd end him. Not with a weapon. Just with the rage she'd swallowed for years.
If unleashed, it would burn through skin, bone, and whatever was left of his humanity.

That was the terrifying part.

She wasn't afraid of him anymore.
She was afraid of what she was becoming.
There was a version of her behind the cracks-buried deep, furious, alive. And it was closer than ever.

One more word. One more look. One more night.

That's all it would take.

So, she chose silence.
Not to protect him. Not to protect herself.
But to protect what was left of the world around her.

She stared at the wall, counted the cracks, and quietly planned her disappearance.
Her escape.

She didn't own a suitcase. Just a worn-out duffel bag that had seen more dust than daylight. It waited under the bed like it had always known this moment would come.

The house wasn't old-barely five years since they bought it-but it felt ancient in spirit. Every room styled to impress, all marble finishes and artificial light. Yet none of it felt like home.
The silence inside was dense, not peaceful. The hallway pristine but suffocating, like a museum where even your breath felt like a disruption.

It wasn't time that wore it down.
It was everything left unsaid. The weight of it.
Nights filled with thunderous silence and careful footsteps.
The kind of place that looked perfect from the outside but hid its bruises behind designer walls.

She moved like a ghost, collecting the few things still hers: a long black coat. An envelope with her passport inside, its seal faded. Cash she'd hidden over the years. A chipped silver locket with no photo inside. A small leather-bound notebook with blank pages and a few more official files along with her precious art book.

She paused at the mirror by the front door-crooked, tilted slightly to the left.
The woman staring back looked... unfinished. Not younger, not older. Just hollowed out. Like someone who had died, then been forced to keep waking up.

She touched the glass.
No emotion. No goodbye. No dramatic breakdown.
Just one breath.
Enough.

She slipped out before sunrise. The house was still. Sacred in its silence.
The same walls that once closed in on her now stood helpless as she walked past them for the last time.
Her footsteps were steady, but there was a quiet tremor beneath them, a small, invisible shudder as if even the earth beneath her knew she was leaving.

The streets outside were wet from last night's rain, glistening under amber streetlights. Her boots echoed on the pavement as she made her way toward the main road. Fog clung to corners like shadows trying to follow her. She didn't look back. Not even once.

There was nothing behind her worth remembering.

And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like prey.
She felt like a shadow on the move.
Not running.
Not escaping.
Just disappearing.

The airport terminal buzzed with fluorescent lights and quiet murmurs. People shuffled past, wheels dragging behind them like ghosts of their own. She barely noticed them. The noise around her was distant, muted. She felt like she was already somewhere else, somewhere far from this place.

Her flight was headed to a quiet northern city. A place with a name no one from her old life had ever said aloud. Somewhere untouched. Untold.

The plane was massive. Double-decker. Built for journeys that spanned oceans and lifetimes. Wide aisles, soft lighting, folded blankets on every seat. Still, she didn't sleep. Couldn't.
Her body was suspended in the sky for fifteen hours, but her mind had already landed. Somewhere far from reach. Far from memory. Far from pain.

The sky outside never turned blue. It stayed silver, like the world hadn't decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

By the time they landed, it was almost dusk.

The city greeted her with grey skies and cold breath. Not cold enough to bite-but just enough to remind her she was alive.
Exposed. Untethered. The air had a different texture here, thick and crisp, not like the stale, forced air of her old life.

She stepped out of the terminal and inhaled deeply.
The city was alive beneath the skin. Towers kissed clouds. Long shadows sliced the streets. Horns in the distance. Footsteps. Hissing subway grates. Neon lights flickered even in daylight.

The air smelled of espresso, gasoline, and roasted chestnuts. It was sharp, real. Nothing like the sterile, perfumed air of her former home.

No one looked twice at her. No one asked questions.
It was the kind of place where you could vanish in plain sight.
And that was exactly what she needed.

The cab she hailed smelled like old leather and cinnamon gum. Jazz played low. The driver didn't speak.

She liked him instantly.

The ride was slow. Not traffic-just a different tempo. Like the city was giving her time to adjust. It didn't rush her. She didn't need to rush.

The hotel sat on a sloping street, tucked between a coffee shop and a faded bookstore. The sign read Greywick Inn.
Small. Unremarkable. Perfect.

Inside, the lobby had burgundy carpet and flickering chandeliers. A potted plant wilted in the corner. The air smelled like old paper and synthetic floral spray.

The receptionist looked up. A woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a kind face.

"Good evening. Checking in?"

She nodded, duffel bag heavy in her hand.

"Name?" the woman asked, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

A pause.

Her heart pressed against her ribs. Not with fear. With decision.
The future lay in the balance. She was erasing herself. Choosing to be someone new.

Then she spoke. Calm. Certain.
"Rhea."

Just that.
No prefix. No past.
Just Rhea.