6: Chores and Curiosity

Anaya didn't sleep. Maybe she drifted off for an hour, but it didn't count. Her body was sore, like dragging herself through wet sand all night. When she sat up, her arms felt weak, and her eyes burned like she'd been crying in her dreams.

The bathroom had no mirror. Just pale tiles, a basic sink, and warm water that ran without protest but didn't help her feel clean. She stared at the wall while showering, trying to feel something stir inside her. It didn't.

She got dressed in the plain clothes from the bag. A gray t-shirt. Black jeans. They smelled like a closet that had never been opened. The fabric felt foreign, like something borrowed and not returned.

When she opened the door, Mira was already standing there. No knock. No call. Just there.

"You're late."

Anaya paused, surprised by how normal her voice sounded. "Where are we going?"

"Work." Mira turned and walked.

Anaya followed. There was no point in pushing back. She didn't even know where to begin. She trailed Mira down the main staircase. Every step creaked. The house breathed around them, but not in a living way. More like it was remembering something.

At the bottom, Mira led her through a hallway that smelled faintly of old wood and some sweet, ghosted fragrance. They passed closed doors, some carved with faded patterns, some plain. One door was taller than the others. Mira opened it and walked in.

It was a dining hall, massive and elegant: a long table, high ceilings. A chandelier that seemed like it hadn't been lit in years. The room was beautiful, but not in a way that welcomed anyone.

Mira handed her a cloth. "Dust everything. No talking. Don't go near the piano."

Anaya's eyes moved toward the far corner. A piano stood there, half covered with a draped, weighty shroud.

"Why not the piano?"

"It's not for you." Mira didn't look at her.

"You're not staying to watch me?"

"I don't need to."

"Then why the rules?"

"Because the house has its own," Mira said, as if it wasn't up for discussion. "And it punishes people who break them."

Then she left. No further details. No gesture to explain herself. Just her footsteps fading until Anaya couldn't hear them anymore.

Anaya looked around the room. She gripped the rag and didn't know where to start. So she picked a table leg and began there. The dust came off in streaks. Her hands already hurt, but she kept moving.

From candleholders, chair legs to window sills. Her arms got tired fast. She winced a little but continued.

She avoided the piano, but it sat there in a way that looked like it was reading her, inviting her, knowing she would come closer. It didn't belong to the room, not to her, not to this life.

She didn't mean to do it. Not really. But her feet moved toward it, and before she knew it, she was there. The cloth in her hand had started slipping. She reached out, so she could steady it.

Her fingers brushed the lid.

A note rang out. Not too all over the place, not subtle. Just exact.

Anaya jumped back like she'd touched something alive. Her breath stuck in her chest. She looked toward the door, frozen.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

She wiped faster. Places she'd already cleaned. Movements to make it believable that she'd been working this whole time. Her heart thudded too loudly. Her shoulders locked tight.

But no one came in.

No voice. No Mira. No punishment.

By noon, Mira returned and brought her to the kitchen.

The bare minimum communication between them wasn't peaceful. It felt like being trapped in a small space with a stranger who might know too much.

Mira dropped a chopping board on the counter and placed a basket of vegetables beside it. She handed Anaya a knife that looked as dull as her mood.

They worked without speaking. Mira peeled something fast, smooth, like she'd done it a hundred times without thinking. Anaya tried to copy her rhythm, but her hands were slower. Less sure.

Now and then, she could feel Mira watching her. She doesn't watch like how a teacher watches a student, She looked at her like those movies where a guard watches another.

Anaya broke the awkwardness. "Why did he buy me?"

Mira didn't say anything.

Typical.

"Do you live here by choice?" Anaya's voice was quieter now, but she didn't stop chopping.

Mira's hand paused, just a little. She finished what she was doing before answering.

"You ask too many questions."

There wasn't annoyance in her tone. Just a kind of full caution, like someone telling you not to step too close to an edge.

Anaya pushed. "Is he always like this?"

Mira didn't answer. Anaya looked up in a way to indicate she was asking for patience.

Anaya's knife hit the board harder than it needed to. "Is he dangerous?"

This time, Mira's eyes finally met hers. It wasn't hard or kind; it was as if she were trying to decide something.

Then she spoke, choosing each word slowly. "He's not what you think."

Anaya waited. Mira didn't look away.

"And he's not what you hope either."

The words landed harder than Anaya expected. She opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but Mira had already moved on.

"So I shouldn't trust him?" Anaya asked.

Mira didn't answer right away. She wiped her hands with a towel and leaned slightly to look out of the small kitchen window. Something about her silence felt heavier than anything she could have said.

"You shouldn't trust anyone," she finally said.

Anaya's voice dropped. "Not even you?"

Mira turned her head just enough for Anaya to see her expression. Her face didn't give anything away. But her eyes lingered, as if they had something else to say.

Then she walked out.

After lunch, Mira said she had an hour to rest. Anaya nodded but didn't go back to the room. The room will only make her think about the many things she wouldn't want to go on and on about.

Instead, she walked the halls. To move. To feel her tired legs working. Some hallways were lined with old paintings, faded, and even looked more strange. Others were empty, cold stretches of wall.

One hallway had no windows. The air felt stuffier there. There were doors on either side. One was left just ajar.

She checked behind her if someone was watching, then she pushed the door open.

Books.

It was a library. Shelves from floor to ceiling. Candles, old rugs, quiet shadows. The smell of paper and dust.

She stepped inside.

Her fingers slid along the spines of books. Some had no titles. Others did. Then one frame caught her eye.

A photo.

Black and white. Framed in silver. A woman.

Anaya froze.

Same eyes. Same nose. Just older. Maybe mid-twenties.

No name. No date. Nothing.

She stared at it. The woman wasn't smiling. Her eyes looked tired. Not in a way that sleep could fix.

"Who are you?" she mumbled. "Why do you look like me?"

Everything else fell away. She leaned in closer.

Is she related to Ferretti? Or was it something worse?

A sound made her spin. The door shifted just enough to suggest someone had passed.

She looked. No one.

Her pulse picked up. The room felt colder than before. She stepped back, but her eyes stayed on the photo. Something about it scratched at the inside of her chest.

She left the library.

Fast. Almost running. Not because she understood anything. But because she didn't. And that was worse.

Back in the kitchen, she wiped the counter again, though it was already clean. Her hands moved mindlessly. Mira walked in and rested lightly against the doorway.

"You look pale," she said. "Where'd you go"

Anaya took a beat, then murmured, 'Who's the woman in the photo in the library?"

Mira's face didn't move. But her voice was different this time.

"You weren't supposed to be there."

"I know. I didn't mean to... I just saw her. And she looked exactly like me."

Mira didn't alter another word.

"She looked sad," Anaya said after she held for a second.

Still, nothing.

"That's not your business," Mira said, and turned to leave.

Anaya stood there, cloth in her hand.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the photo. Or her eyes. Or the possibility that someone had been here before.

Someone who maybe didn't get out.