The Caged Smile — Part 3

The air in the room had grown colder in the days that followed. She couldn’t tell how many days had passed—there were no windows, and time became meaningless inside these four walls. The collar weighed on her neck like a shackle from some other life, yet somehow it had become part of her now.

Her legs were slowly recovering strength. The ache never left, but her body had begun to remember what movement felt like. She would pace in short circles as far as the chain allowed, each step echoing with quiet defiance. She refused to let her muscles forget the feeling of walking. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

He, on the other hand, had grown more unpredictable. Sometimes he would sit across the room and simply watch her as if studying an animal. Other times, he’d bring her meals and sit silently by the door, staring at his hands, trembling. There were moments when he looked like a child who had broken something he couldn’t fix, desperate and confused.

One night, she found a small piece of graphite—maybe from an old pencil stub—under the bed. She hid it quickly. Then she tore a strip from her blanket. From that day forward, she wrote.

At first, just tally marks. Then, words. Thoughts. Names. Emotions.

“I am still me.”

“I am not gone.”

She wrote messages not for him—but for herself. They reminded her who she was, and that her thoughts were still her own.

One evening, he entered without a tray. He was barefoot, holding a worn-out photo album in his hand. He walked over, sat by the bed, and opened it.

“Do you want to see?” he asked gently.

She didn't answer, didn’t move. Her face was expressionless.

He turned the pages anyway.

“My mother took this photo. I was five,” he said, pointing to a blurred image of a boy in a navy sweater. “That was the last time she smiled at me.”

She watched, uncertain. He continued talking as if they were friends, like this was normal, like the chains around her neck didn’t exist. And when he got to the last page, he froze.

“This one is... you,” he whispered.

It was a candid photo from school—her laughing under the cherry tree, sunlight spilling over her hair. Her chest tightened.

“You kept this?”

He nodded. “I took it the day you offered me a seat.”

Her stomach twisted. He saw that as a turning point. But to her, it was just kindness.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked, finally breaking her silence.

“I want you to remember that we had something real,” he replied, his voice cracking.

“Real?” she almost laughed. “You hit me. You chained me like a dog. You think this is love?”

His lips trembled. “You don’t understand. I just... I couldn’t lose you. Not like everyone else.”

She turned her face away, her jaw clenched.

“I was never yours to keep,” she muttered.

That night, when he left, she didn’t cry. Something inside her had hardened. The pity she once felt for him was gone. In its place, a plan was beginning to take shape.

The next day, she began testing the chain more aggressively. She examined the screws. The base. The pattern of his visits. She remembered where the hidden cameras were, which corners they couldn’t see clearly.

She started saving pieces of food—dry bits of bread, small bones, anything she could hide under the mattress. Her body needed fuel, but her mind needed tools.

She began speaking to him again, not out of trust, but calculation. She smiled more often, softened her voice, met his eyes. Slowly, he relaxed. His guard lowered. He stayed longer. Sat closer. She laughed at his jokes. Asked questions about his life.

And then, she asked him about outside.

“What’s it like? Is there a town nearby? A train station?”

He frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. If I’m going to be here forever, I want to at least know what’s beyond these walls.”

He paused, then looked at her, confused but pleased. “You’re... getting used to it?”

She forced a smile. “Maybe.”

The next few days were warmer. He started bringing her things—a book, a comb, even let her shower under his supervision. She played the part perfectly, even humming a song while combing her tangled hair.

He watched with misty eyes. “You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied sweetly, though her stomach churned.

One morning, she woke earlier than him. The door was unlocked. The key—maybe left behind in his exhaustion—still hung in the lock.

She held her breath. Heart racing. Every nerve on fire.

She slowly, silently unhooked the collar, her hands trembling violently. She grabbed her stash—knife, scraps, and makeshift tools—and slipped through the door.

Down the hallway.

Past the living room.

To the front door—

Locked.

She froze.

Then spotted a small window by the kitchen. Too high, but maybe reachable.

She pulled a stool. Climbed. Slipped. Climbed again. Opened the window. It was tight, but she could just squeeze through—

Until she heard a voice behind her.

“Where are you going?”

His voice wasn’t angry.

It was broken.

She turned to face him. The look on his face was not rage, but disbelief. Betrayal.

“I trusted you...” he said, stepping closer.

She didn’t respond.

“I thought we were healing together,” he continued, voice cracking.

She tightened her grip on the knife.

“Don’t come closer,” she warned.

He stopped. Looked at the knife. Then at her.

“You’d hurt me?” he whispered.

“You already hurt me,” she said, climbing through the window.

The cold hit her like a slap. The snow was thick, biting. Her feet sank with every step. But she didn’t stop.

She ran.

She didn’t look back.

He stood at the window, watching her shrink into the white distance. His eyes didn’t blink. He didn’t scream. He simply whispered, “Come back... please.”

And then, he closed the window.

End of Part 3.