Lost Anne

Chapter Three

Over a week has passed in this lonely place, and I haven't once set foot outside this room. Fear binds me here, a prisoner of my own silence, wrapped in an isolation that feels safe yet suffocating.

Every time I consider stepping out, reality looms like a dark storm I can't bear to face. It's easier to stay still, to fade slowly, unnoticed and untouched, as if I no longer exist.

After the anxiety that overtook me the day Harry found me, the doctor arrived, practically rushing in, though his manner was kind. A man of perhaps fifty, with calm eyes and an air of competence, he brought with him a sense of assurance that, though foreign to me, was oddly soothing. He worked on my injuries, his touch steady and warm.

He gave everyone instructions with quick authority, mentioning medicine, bed rest, and "no unnecessary movement," all of which seemed like a fragile shield.

Harry has kept his distance since that first day. He left me with only a polite nod, as if the mere facts of my existence were enough reason for him to leave me here. I was a bit disappointed.

His absence has created a new kind of silence around me, and though I feel strangely abandoned, it also lets me drift further into this strange, foggy reality.

Grief presses down on me, like a weight I can't shake. Each memory of my father, my mother, and Tommy feels as sharp as ever.

Their faces, their laughter, and every bit of love we shared are as vivid as if they were right beside me. I feel a knot tighten in my chest, the ache deep and relentless. It's as though I'm tethered to them still, trapped in the moments we once shared. The past feels closer to me than this unsettling present.

I close my eyes, my father's face lingering just beyond the edge of my vision, like a shadow that refuses to disappear.

My fingers move instinctively to the small hairpiece hiding my scar. The smooth surface beneath is a quiet reminder, one I had somehow ignored until Mrs. Fitley had pointed it out a few days ago.

I flinch slightly as my fingers touched the scar.

Mrs. Fitley standing beside me, arranging folds of fabric around my waist, her hands cold against my skin in the candlelight. I can't understand her insistence on dressing me each evening, but she has made it her duty. I let out a quiet sigh, resisting the urge to argue.

"Do you need anything else, dear?" she asks, her voice as soft as the flicker of the candle flame.

"No, Mrs. Fitley," I murmur, struggling to muster a polite smile. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it, love," she replies, her eyes studying me with a look I can't quite read. "Your heart's been heavy since you arrived. I see it in the way you hold yourself."

There's no denying it, though I avoid her gaze, feeling a sting of vulnerability.

"It's... just this place. It doesn't feel real," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

She pauses, tucking a strand of hair back into place.

"Aye, Dalmeny can feel otherworldly. I've felt it myself. You just need to give it time. You'll come to understand it soon enough."

"Time," I repeat softly, looking around at the walls that have come to feel like a strange kind of prison.

"I don't know if time's what I need, I don't even know why I'm here."

Her hand rests on my shoulder, a small, grounding comfort.

"You're here because you need to be. The young lord does not one to take people in lightly. He sees something in you."