The Caged Smile — Part 6

Snow continued to fall long after she vanished into the vast white wilderness. The world around her had become a hollow echo of silence. With every painful step, the icy winds scraped against her skin like invisible claws. Her breath came out in ragged puffs, and her feet were numb, her lips blue. The cold didn't just bite—it devoured. But she pushed forward, driven not by hope but by the instinct to move, to survive.

Her arms wrapped around her body, cradling the pain, shielding herself from the ghost of his hands, his voice, his breath. Her legs buckled often. She fell once—twice—then again. But still, she crawled through the snow, dragging her bruised body across the endless expanse of white. No direction. No map. Just away.

Eventually, she collapsed against a tree trunk, its rough bark biting into her back. It was the first shelter she had found since running. Her eyes flickered shut.

Darkness.

Then, light.

She woke in a stranger’s cabin. The air was warm. A fire crackled. Her limbs were wrapped in blankets. Her eyes darted frantically across the room—until she saw an old woman seated at a distance, her gaze cautious but kind.

“You’re safe,” the woman said softly, noticing her panic. “I found you near the woods, almost frozen to death.”

She tried to speak, but her voice cracked like dry glass.

“Drink,” the woman said, handing her a steaming cup of something herbal.

She drank. Her throat burned, but life returned.

That night, she slept without chains for the first time in months.

The woman, named Hana, lived in seclusion—a small cabin near the mountains, a few kilometers from any real town. She didn’t ask questions. Perhaps she had known darkness too, and recognized the shadows in her guest’s eyes.

Weeks passed.

Each day, the girl regained fragments of herself. She helped with chores. She began speaking more. Her legs grew strong again. She even smiled once while brushing snow off the porch. It felt foreign.

One morning, she sat with Hana and finally asked, “Can I write a letter?”

Hana nodded.

She wrote to her parents. Her hands trembled. She didn’t tell the full truth—how could she? But she wrote enough. That she was alive. That she was safe. That she was sorry.

Hana promised to deliver it when she next went to the town.

But that night, as the girl looked out the window, she saw something in the woods.

A figure.

Still. Watching.

Her heart dropped. She blinked. It was gone.

She told Hana, but the old woman dismissed it as paranoia. “You’ve been through too much. Your mind plays tricks.”

But she knew better.

The dreams returned. Vivid, bloody. In them, he stood at the edge of her bed, smiling. Whispering her name. Sometimes, she dreamed of his fingers wrapping around her neck, not with hatred, but longing. Possession.

She woke up screaming more than once.

One morning, she found a fresh footprint in the snow—just one—beneath her window.

She didn’t tell Hana this time. She didn’t want the woman involved.

She began preparing.

She fashioned a weapon—a heavy stick sharpened to a point. She trained her steps to be silent. She started hiding food in a sack, just in case.

And she wrote again. This time not to her parents—but to herself.

“If you’re reading this, it means you survived.”

The storm came fast. Thunder growled. Wind howled through the cracks. The cabin shook. Hana and the girl huddled together near the fire.

Then—the knock.

Three soft raps.

Not the wind. Not a branch.

Her breath caught.

Hana stood, confused. “Who could be out in this storm?”

The girl grabbed Hana’s wrist. “Don’t open it.”

The knock came again.

Louder.

A third time—violent.

Then silence.

They waited, frozen.

After an hour, the storm faded. Morning light broke through the clouds. The girl opened the door slowly. No one.

But something hung on the porch.

Her old collar.

Cleaned.

Polished.

With a red ribbon tied around it.

She collapsed to her knees. Her screams echoed into the quiet snow.

They packed. Left the cabin. Hana took her to town. It was time.

She gave a false name, but told enough to get help. She was placed in a rehabilitation home. Officials promised an investigation.

But he was never found.

Six months passed.

She lived in a small apartment now. Sparse but safe. She walked to therapy twice a week. Took long showers. Smelled the soap. Drank hot tea. These things mattered now.

But she checked the locks three times every night. Slept with a knife under her pillow. And sometimes, she swore she still heard the chain dragging behind her when she walked.

One evening, she opened her mailbox. Among the bills and junk, she found a letter.

No return address.

Inside: a single photograph.

Her.

Walking on the sidewalk.

From that morning.

Taken from across the street.

On the back: “You still smile the same.”

She dropped the photo. Her legs went numb.

She wasn’t free.

Not yet.

Not ever.

End of Part 6