The silence inside the memory was thick, suffocating, smelling of dust, sweat, and blood. The door swung open with a creak, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room like a blade.
Malva's father stumbled over the doorway, reeking of stale drink and the sour smell of the street. His clothes were torn at the sleeves, his face red and ugly from a night of losing at the gambling dens. He slammed the door behind him with a loud bang, cursing under his breath.
"Where is she?" he spat, his bloodshot eyes scanning the dim room. "Get up, you useless—"
He froze.
His gaze landed on the ragged bed across the room.
Ten-year-old Malva stood beside her mother's pale, still body, her small, thin hands resting over her mother's cold chest. Her black hair hung in messy, uncombed strands over her face, hiding everything except her eyes.
There were no tears. No trembling shoulders. Her black eyes were wide, pitch-black, and completely empty of life.
