Before Clarissa, the world was nothing but rot. People were greedy, cold, corrupt — all masks and violence. Only she had been real.

She was light. And that light was all he had.

If she left him now, what would be left of him?

The thought alone made something violent twist inside his chest. Maybe he really didn’t know what love was.

He cupped her face in his hands, voice low and trembling. “If love means losing you... then I don’t want it.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice a broken whisper. “Since my mother died, you’re all I’ve had. If you leave, I’ll be alone again. Truly alone. Can you bear to do that to me?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You’ll probably call me shameless again. And you’d be right. I am shameless. I’m selfish. I’ve failed you. I know I’m not the man you hoped I’d be.”

His voice grew softer, more desperate. “But please... don’t hate me. You were the only one who ever cared for me — even when I was filthy, broken, unworthy. Why won’t you stay now?”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, whispering, “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? You always did. You loved me once... maybe you still do.”

He held the sleeping Clarissa for a long time, murmuring to her in the dark.

He wasn’t a talkative man — but with her, the words came endlessly. Every emotion, every thought that twisted inside him found its way to her in whispers she’d never hear.

And when at last the night grew deep, he stood quietly, leaving her side.

He never noticed the moment the door closed, Clarissa’s eyes opened.

Tears, long held back, finally spilled down her cheeks.

She sat up, pressing her hands to her face, her sobs breaking the silence.

She didn’t even know why it hurt so much — only that every word he’d spoken had carved deeper into her heart, leaving it raw and bleeding.

Her voice was a whisper, trembling, full of sorrow.

“Atticus...”

......

When Atticus stepped out, Eleven was already standing obediently in the corridor. The moment she saw him, she bowed.

Atticus gave a curt, low “Hmm,” his expression cold and distant again. “Go get some rest. You can come in a little later tomorrow morning.”

Clarissa had gone to bed so late last night — she’d probably sleep in.

Eleven nodded, about to leave, when his voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

She turned back, puzzled, and watched as Atticus’s eyes darkened. “Tomorrow, have someone lock the window. Don’t let her open it.”

He had seen Clarissa sitting on the windowsill earlier — and a sudden, gut-deep fear had struck him that she might just... vanish.

Eleven hesitated for a brief second but quickly nodded.

Only after hearing her agreement did Atticus finally turn and walk away down the hall.

Clarissa, however, woke much earlier than he’d imagined.

A faint rustling at the window stirred her from sleep. She got up, still half-dreaming, and went to check. There, perched delicately on the windowsill, was the same little bird from yesterday — its feathers still slightly ruffled, something glinting in its beak.

Clarissa smiled faintly and unlatched the window. “Why are you back again?” she whispered.

The bird fluttered inside, landing lightly on her outstretched finger. Only then did she see what it carried.

A small silver ring — tarnished and flecked with moss.

Clarissa carefully took it, turning it over in her palm. The bird chirped twice, hopping in tiny circles, as if proud of its gift and waiting to be praised.

“Is this for me?”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung with sudden tears. Warmth flooded through her — a fragile, human warmth she hadn’t felt in days.

She cupped the little bird gently and murmured, “Thank you…”

How foolish she’d been, even to have thought of ending it all.

This tiny creature — so delicate, so alive — had pulled her back from that edge without even knowing it.

She set the ring on her bedside table, then turned to find some food for it. But before she could take a step, a sharp knock broke the quiet.

Startled, the bird let out a frightened cry and darted out the open window. Clarissa frowned, annoyance flashing through her. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened. Eleven stepped in first, followed by several unfamiliar men in uniform — cold, expressionless, mechanical.

Clarissa’s brows knit. “What’s going on?”

They didn’t answer. One of the men slammed the window shut, and then — without a word — began nailing it closed.

Clarissa froze for a moment, disbelief giving way to fury. “What the hell are you doing?!”

No one looked at her. The men moved with silent precision, hammering, locking, sealing — as if she weren’t even there.

Clarissa turned sharply toward Eleven. “Eleven, what is this?”

The girl hesitated, then pulled a small notepad from her pocket and scribbled something down.

Clarissa read it — and her face twisted with anger. “What does he mean by this? Is he trying to drive me insane?!”

Her voice cracked as she shouted, every word shaking.

Eleven stood silently, eyes lowered. She looked at the pen in her hand, as if it might offer her an answer, then back at Clarissa — helpless, torn. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t explain, couldn’t protect her.

Clarissa saw it — and though rage still burned in her, something inside her collapsed.

The workers finished quickly. Within minutes, every window was sealed.

Eleven lingered for a moment, guilt flickering across her face, but in the end, she turned and quietly walked out.

The door closed with a dull click, leaving Clarissa alone.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Something inside her snapped.

She swept her arm across the table, sending everything crashing to the floor — dishes, books, vases, glass shattering into a dozen sharp, glittering fragments.

Clarissa stood there, breathing hard, her body trembling. Rage, despair, and helplessness tangled inside her until all she wanted was to destroy everything.

Her gaze shifted toward the window.

Outside, the same bird perched on the nearby branches, their tiny heads cocked as if watching her. Clarissa rushed over, pressing both palms against the glass.

He chirped anxiously, fluttering against the barrier. He struck the pane, dazed, and tumbled down onto the ledge.

“Go away,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking. “Don’t ever come back.”

The bird tilted its head at her, then, with a soft flutter, flew off into the distance.

Clarissa exhaled shakily, watching it go.

But as the tiny figure disappeared into the horizon, something inside her went cold — a spreading frost that began at her chest and crept outward until she felt utterly numb.

She leaned against the window, staring blankly at the pale sky.

A bird trapped in a cage. That’s what she was.

No freedom. No escape. Just a hollow life, watched and walled in from every side.

Her eyes fell to the iron ring lying quietly on the table. Its moss shimmered faintly in the light — not just moss, she realized, but a kind of algae that thrived only near the sea.

A realization hit her like a stone.

Maybe this was some isolated island — a place no one could reach, not even the Wraith family.

Was she going to be trapped here forever?

The thought pressed down on her like the ocean itself — vast, silent, and suffocating.

......

When Eleven entered, she saw Clarissa leaning quietly against the windowsill, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the glass. Eleven sighed inwardly, then took out a small notepad, scribbled something down, and handed the piece of paper to her.

Clarissa blinked slowly, her voice faint. “Eleven?”

Eleven nodded obediently.

Clarissa turned toward her and accepted the note. The girl’s handwriting was delicate — neat, precise, almost tender, just like her.

It read: “I made a dessert for you. It’ll make you happy. Would you like to try it?”

Something twisted in Clarissa’s chest. She looked at Eleven, her lips curling into a faint, tired smile. “Alright,” she murmured softly. “Bring it in.”

Eleven brightened immediately and hurried out. A few minutes later, she returned, carefully carrying a small plate.

Clarissa picked up her fork. She didn’t have any appetite, but she forced herself to take a bite anyway. The dessert was sweet, light — genuinely delicious. But after the second bite, her throat tightened, and her stomach churned in protest.

She frowned, forcing herself to swallow before setting the fork down.

Eleven’s expression dimmed. Clarissa’s appetite had been fading day by day; more and more of her meals went untouched.

Clarissa rubbed her temples, a faint irritation flickering across her face. “I can’t eat anymore,” she said quietly. “Take it away. I’m tired. I want to rest.”

Eleven hesitated, worry clouding her eyes, but she nodded, cleaned the tray, and left.

......

That evening, Atticus returned and immediately noticed the mess in her room. For a long time, he stood at her door, hand on the handle, uncertain whether to go in.

When he finally opened it, Clarissa was sitting on the windowsill again, staring out at the dark night sky — the same posture as the night before, except this time the window was sealed shut.

He stood there for a moment, watching her, then walked slowly toward her.

Clarissa heard his footsteps but didn’t even lift her head. When his arms slipped around her from behind, she didn’t resist.

“Clarissa…” His voice was low, almost pleading.

She didn’t move, her face blank and unreadable.

Sensing the shift in her, Atticus tightened his hold and said softly, “That platform outside isn’t finished yet. I sealed it off because I was worried you’d fall. Once the railings are installed, I’ll reopen it.”

“It’s alright,” Clarissa said evenly. “It’s fine the way it is.”

Even if there were a way out, she thought, she wouldn’t get far.

Atticus felt like he’d punched into air. He looked down at the woman in his arms — expressionless, eyes distant. She wasn’t even looking at him.

Something darkened in his gaze. Frustration simmered in his chest until he couldn’t contain it anymore. He caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

Clarissa met his eyes. Her stare was calm — too calm — stripped of the anger she once had.

He would rather she curse him, scream at him — anything but this quiet emptiness.

Driven by a sudden, vengeful urge, he bent down and crushed his mouth against hers, pinning her back against the windowsill. The kiss deepened, rough and desperate.

Clarissa stiffened, startled at first, then went still. She closed her eyes and let him do as he pleased, her silence cutting deeper than resistance ever could.

His breathing grew ragged. His kisses turned feverish, greedy. He tore at her clothes, the fabric giving way with a harsh rip, fluttering to the floor in tatters.

Pressed hard against the cold windowsill, Clarissa stirred faintly — a small, instinctive protest — but then stopped.

Her stillness only made something darker flicker in Atticus’s eyes. He lifted her easily, carrying her to the bed.