A NEW HOUSE

Morning came differently here.

On the street, dawn announced itself with movement—brooms scraping concrete, engines coughing awake, voices already arguing about prices. Here, morning arrived quietly, slipping in through the cracks like it wasn’t sure it was welcome.

Someone untied me.

I stiffened at the touch, ready to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. I was guided through a narrow passage into a space that felt… private. Enclosed. A compound, maybe. High walls. A gate that closed with a final, metallic sound that made my chest tighten.

So this was the new world.

I was shown where to stay. Tied again. Not roughly, but firmly enough to make the message clear. This was not a place for wandering. A bowl was placed in front of me. Food. Different from what I was used to. Cleaner. Heavier.

I didn’t touch it at first.

I waited.

Habit is a strange thing. Even when everything else changes, it insists on staying the same. I kept expecting him to appear beside me, to test the food first, to give me that look that said, It’s safe. Eat.

But he didn’t come.

Eventually, hunger won.

The day unfolded slowly. People moved in and out of the house, glancing at me occasionally, speaking about me as if I couldn’t hear. Their voices weren’t unkind. Almost casual. Like I was furniture that had just been rearranged.

A neighbor passed by and laughed. Someone else nodded approvingly. I caught words here and there, floating just out of reach, heavy with meaning I didn’t yet understand.

I was washed later. Water poured over me, cool and startling. Hands scrubbed at me with surprising care. It felt intimate in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. On the street, touch was either violent or generous—never this deliberate.

I realized then that I was being prepared.

Prepared for what, I didn’t know. But preparation implies intention, and intention is never random.

As the sun climbed higher, I watched shadows move across the ground. I memorized the cracks in the wall. I counted footsteps. I tried to imagine my brother doing the same somewhere else, alive in his own routine, stubbornly refusing to believe I was gone.

I wondered if he blamed himself.

The thought hurt more than hunger ever had.

That evening, a woman stood near me for a long time, studying me with something like satisfaction. She smiled, already imagining a future that did not include my consent.

I looked away.

Night fell again, and this time I understood something clearly:

This house was not a home.

It was a waiting room.