𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙀𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 ꒐ ℤ𝕠𝕣𝕠

(1) 𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓞𝓯 𝓢𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓽

.•♫•♬• Songs •♬•♫•.

• 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥...
•𝘋𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦...
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Scarlet sat at the kitchen table, sunlight filtering through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.

'Scarlet, dear, would you like some tea?' Her mother, Sarah, stood hovering over the stove, her voice barely a murmur.

Scarlet remained silent, her gaze fixed on the swirling tea leaves in her cup. 'No, thank you, Mother,' she finally replied, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth it once held.

Sarah sighed, her wispy figure shrinking further. 'You're so quiet these days, Scarlet. Remember when you used to sing?'

A flicker of a smile touched Scarlet's lips, quickly vanishing. 'Those were different times, Mother.'

'They were,' Sarah agreed, her voice a barely audible whisper. 'They were.'

Silence descended once more. Scarlet could practically feel the weight of her father's presence in the house, a dark cloud hanging over the room. He was a man who ruled by silence, his disapproval a tangible force.

'He'll be home soon, Scarlet,' Sarah said, her voice a tremor in the stillness.

Scarlet felt a chill creep down her spine. 'I know, Mother.'

The past years had been a slow, relentless erosion of her spirit, each day a little dimmer than the last. The laughter, the dreams, the joy - all gone, replaced by a dull ache that echoed in the emptiness of her soul.

'You know, Scarlet,' Sarah said, her voice barely a whisper, 'I used to dream of a world where we could be free.'

Scarlet looked up, startled. 'Free?'

Sarah nodded, her eyes filled with a distant longing. 'Free to be ourselves, to laugh, to sing...to live.'

Scarlet stared at her mother, a question simmering in her heart. Could they still find that freedom? Or had they lost it forever, swallowed by the darkness that had claimed their home?Scarlet pressed her ear against the heavy oak door, the wood cold against her cheek. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo against the chilling symphony of silence that filled the rest of the house.
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'Scarlet! Open this door!' The voice was a guttural rasp, laced with the venom of a thousand spiders. Each syllable was a sharp crack, breaking the fragile silence.

Scarlet squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to stay back. She knew better than to answer. To speak was to invite the storm, the whirlwind of rage that would surely follow.

The rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock, a metronome in the room's stark emptiness, hammered its message: time was passing, but their lives were frozen in this brutal dance.

A heavy thud reverberated through the door, the sound of his fist connecting with the wood, sending a tremor through the house. He had started to pace, his anger simmering, waiting to boil over.

'You think you can hide from me, girl? You think you can play these games?' His voice, though muffled by the door, was still a terrifying rumble, a physical force that threatened to break her.

Scarlet curled tighter, her body trembling. It was the nightly ritual, the unspoken agreement of their existence: he would rage, she would endure. And as the night wore on, the clock, a cold, implacable witness, would continue to tick, marking the passage of time and the torment that held them both captive.