The sunlight filtered gently through the curtains when Oakley opened her eyes. For the first time in days, the silence didn't feel peaceful—it felt staged. As if the house had learned to breathe without sound, letting her move freely within its lungs while it watched her from every wall.
There was a knock on the door.
She opened it to find a maid, the same woman who had delivered her food earlier.
"You're to bring down the clothes from yesterday," the maid said, her tone neutral, her eyes… unreadable.
Oakley blinked. "They're to be washed?"
The maid nodded. "You'll be given something more appropriate later."
That gave Oakley pause.
More appropriate?
Still, she handed over the borrowed shirt and pants, her fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric. Something about this exchange felt rehearsed—like a performance with only one person unaware of the script.
"Where do they wash them?" Oakley asked, her voice light, casual.
The maid didn't meet her eyes. "Somewhere far from your concern."
And then she turned and left.
Oakley stood in the doorway a moment longer, staring after her. The door closed with a soft click, and the silence returned.
She didn't stay locked in her room this time.
By now, she'd memorized which hallways she was allowed in and which ones seemed to invite trouble. She stuck to the permitted path, moving slowly, as if walking too fast might set off an invisible alarm.
She was heading toward the quiet sitting room at the end of the west wing when she saw him.
Daniel.
Leaning against the wall just past the archway, arms crossed, face blank. Like he'd been waiting. Or maybe he was always there.
He didn't move when she approached.
He didn't even blink.
She tried to walk past him like she didn't care, but then she stopped and turned back.
"You're always this quiet?"
Still, he didn't answer.
"You're always watching me," she added, folding her arms. "But you never say anything."
That made him look at her, and for the first time, his expression shifted—just slightly.
"Observation," he said, "is safer than conversation."
Oakley frowned. "And what are you observing me for, then?"
A long pause.
Then quietly, he said, "To see if he was right."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
But Daniel was already turning away.
And just like that, he was gone—swallowed by the hall, leaving her with a weight in her chest she couldn't name.
Back in her room, the quiet no longer felt like safety. It felt like pressure.
She changed in the bathroom with the door shut tight, checking the mirror twice. She didn't speak out loud anymore. She didn't even hum. There was always the memory of that small, hidden camera in the corner of the room—its black lens aimed right at her bed like an unblinking eye.
She wasn't about to give them a show.
Everything looked exactly the same.
Except for the folded paper sitting neatly on the side table.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn't seen it there before.
Oakley walked toward it slowly, picking it up with hands that trembled just a little.
No seal.
No ink.
She opened it.
Blank.
No message. No signature. Not a single word.
She stared at it for a long time, as if meaning would rise from the page like heat.
But it stayed blank.
That was the message.
Nothing.
And somehow, that scared her more than the notes before.
-----
That night, she pulled the desk chair under the camera and stood on it. Carefully, deliberately, she turned the small black lens toward the wall.
Let them wonder.
If they wanted her to play the role, she'd stop giving them a script.
She went to bed in silence.
The note still resting on the table beside her.