Siyara sat slumped against the cold door, her back pressed into the polished wood, the ring on her finger catching the dim light like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. Her heart ached, raw and unyielding, a hollow chamber of grief and disbelief. Her mind refused to acknowledge anyone, even her own family, who hovered nearby in ignorance, mistaking her silence for composure.
If Siyara was hurt, she isolated herself entirely. Her tears were hers alone; no one would see them, no one would hear her voice. The walls of her room became her sanctuary and her prison, a space where she could crumble into herself without the prying eyes of the world. She existed in silence, a ghost among memories of what should have been, each heartbeat echoing the betrayal she felt.
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