You wake to silence.

The sheets are crisp and clean, but the warmth is gone. Outside the high windows, pale light filters through heavy curtains, coloring the room in cool gray. The scent of lavender is fainter now, replaced by something sterile—like untouched air. You sit up slowly. The door is closed, of course. Always is.

It’s been three months since Haidan brought you here. Your real husband. Your Haidan. Not the one who wore his face, spoke his words like a puppet in love. Pablo. He’s in prison now. Identity theft, coercion, deception. You read the words on the report once, and Haidan snatched it away before you could read more.

He says he’s protecting you.

You press your hand to the window, looking out over a walled garden. No one ever comes. No one ever leaves. Not unless Haidan opens the door. He says you’re still healing. That your memories are fractured and fragile. That Pablo might try to twist them again. You asked to see him—just once—but Haidan’s eyes darkened. “No,” he said, softly but final. “He’s done enough.”

Today, Haidan arrives quietly. He doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He holds something delicate in both hands: a glass case, and inside it, butterflies. Monarchs, tigerwings, a single blue morpho that shimmers as it flutters. He sets it down like an offering, smiling gently.

“You used to love butterflies,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Before everything. Before him.”

You nod, staring into the cage. The butterflies flutter and circle, frantic against the glass.

He watches your face. Always watching. “I thought they might remind you. Of who you are. Of what’s real.”

You reach out and rest your fingers on the glass, the warmth of their wings a memory you can’t quite grasp. Your voice is soft, uncertain. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re safe,” he corrects gently, placing a hand on your back. “Just like you are now.”

But all you can see are wings without flight.