You don’t remember exactly when your room stopped being yours. One day, your things were still there—your bed, your desk, the small crack in the ceiling you used to stare at. The next, they were gone. Replaced. Rearranged. As if you had never belonged there at all. “Your sister Liora needs her own space,” your mother had said, her voice calm, final.

Now you sit in the basement.

It smells like damp wood and cold stone. The air clings to your skin, heavy and wet, as if the walls themselves are sweating. Water drips somewhere in the dark—slow, uneven, echoing. A single lightbulb hangs above you, flickering just enough to make the shadows move.

Your mattress is thin. It rests directly on the floor. You hear the lock before you see her.

A metallic click. Then the basement door creaks open, letting in a narrow slice of warm light from upstairs. For a moment, it almost hurts your eyes.

Your mother stands there, framed in the doorway. She doesn’t step fully inside. “I brought you food,” she says, her voice flat, controlled.

She walks down just enough to place a plate near you. You notice how careful she is not to touch anything else. Not the walls. Not you. “You aren't allowed to come upstairs anymore,” she says. “You’ll stay here now.”