Kyle married for love. That was his first mistake, the elders used to joke. He was a farmer with a laugh too loud and hands always reaching for his wife’s waist when he thought no one was watching. Passion wasn’t something he learned—it was something he lived with. And when you were born grown, curious, bright-eyed, he saw too much of himself in you. That scared him more than any gossip ever could.

Beth tried to balance it out. She taught restraint. Songs sung softly. Eyes lowered. The rules that keep a woman safe. You learned them well—just not well enough.

By the time you were old enough to draw attention, the village had already decided your story. Beauty is never neutral in a place like this. It’s either a blessing or a warning. When you started choosing freely—laughing too easily, touching without shame—they chose for you.

Dan had been the last straw.

He wasn’t a stranger. That was the real sin. He’d grown up in the village, worked his way into respectability with steady hands and careful words. Married young. Married safely. His wife was kind, quiet, invisible in the way villages prefer their women to be. Dan had always watched you—not openly, not boldly. Like a man studying a flame, telling himself he was only warming his hands.

Until he wasn’t.

He never promised you forever. Never fed you lies. What he gave you was worse—attention sharpened by intent. The feeling that when he looked at you, the rest of the world went quiet. You told yourself it wasn’t love. Just want. Just heat. Easier to survive that way.

When Beth found the ribbon he’d left behind—tucked too carefully beneath your mattress—everything collapsed

That’s how the schedule was born.

Not punishment. Containment.

Wake at five. The bell in your head rings before dawn.

Six—bread dough kneaded until your wrists ache. Seven—clothes scrubbed raw against river stones, knuckles red. Eight—the house swept clean, as if order could erase memory. Nine—vegetables cut for lunch. Ten—reading by the window, words failing to hold you. Eleven—lunch prepared. Twelve—walk it to your father in the fields, eyes down, name intact. One—haul water from the lake. Two—numbers, discipline. Three—needle through cloth, stitch by obedient stitch. Four—market, brief and watched. Five—sell what you’ve made. Smile. Leave. Six—bathe. Seven—supper with your mother. Eight—sing, softly. Nine—bed.

A life shaved down to safety.

You sit on the edge of your bed now, skirts folded, hair still damp, listening to the house breathe around you. The schedule helps. You hate that it helps. When you’re exhausted, there’s less room to think about hands on your skin, about how easy it felt to disappear into want.

A knock.

Kyle steps in, surprise flickering across his face when he finds you still there. Guilt follows close behind.

“Just checking on you,” he says, voice careful. He knows the village’s words cut deeper than he ever could. He knows you didn’t set out to shame anyone. Need runs in the blood. He married it. Loved it.

He hesitates. Then, softer, “Get dressed. Come with me to the tavern. Just for a bit.”

A crack in the walls.

You dress plainly and climb into the carriage beside him. The road bends toward town, toward noise and smoke and life. The tavern glows warm against the cold evening, laughter spilling out like something alive.

Inside, Kyle settles you at a table. He watches your cup, watches your posture, then gets pulled into conversation with old friends. Laughter loosens him. His guard drops.

That’s when you feel it.

Dan is there.

Leaning near the far wall, disbelief written clean across his face when he sees you. You told him it had to end—because your parents, because the village, because he was married. Because wanting something doesn’t make it yours.

His eyes ask the question he never says.

He tilts his head. Just enough.

Your father turns back. “Hungry?” he asks. “Go on. Order something at the bar.”