The next morning, Elena came down the stairs quietly, one hand on the rail, her eyes tired from barely sleeping.
She had waited until late because she didn't want to sit at the same table with Isabel and Maria. She couldn't stand their voices, their eyes, their whispers.
The dining room was calm now, the table already cleared of their plates. The cook had left her breakfast ready—exactly what she had been craving since last night. Warm fish stew. Fresh bread. Fruits. Something soft, something she thought she could handle.
She sat slowly, took a deep breath, and lifted the spoon.
Footsteps echoed. High heels. Sharp. Familiar.
Isabel and Maria stepped into the dining room.
Elena kept her eyes on her food, pretending not to see them. She heard their voices anyway, low and sharp, gossiping, mocking… like needles.
She ignored them. She had promised herself she wouldn't lose her peace again.
