Cold straw scratched against my palms.
The stables were quiet at this hour—too quiet. The horses slept standing, their breaths slow and rhythmic, steam curling faintly from their nostrils in the chill of early dawn. The scent of hay, manure, and leather filled the air, grounding, familiar.
Once, this place had been my refuge.
Now, it was where they put me.
I knelt beside a wooden trough, sleeves rolled past my elbows, hands submerged in murky water darkened by dirt and blood. I scrubbed slowly, methodically, as if the act itself could cleanse more than just my skin.
It didn't.
No matter how hard I rubbed, the faint stains clung stubbornly to the lines of my palms, settling into the grooves like memories that refused to fade.
Blood washed off easily.
Shame did not.
I exhaled through my nose and pulled my hands free, watching droplets fall back into the trough. They rippled the surface, distorting my reflection until my face became something warped and unfamiliar.
