The rhythmic drumming of rain against the glass provided the only solace in Zheira's vast, empty room. Perched on the window frame, she closed her eyes, imagining the wind, the freedom, the world she'd only ever dreamed of.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of gilded imprisonment. Her room, large enough for two cabins, felt like a cage, amplifying her loneliness.

“Madame, your lunch is ready!” The maid's monotonic voice shattered the quiet. Zheira's heart thrummed, a familiar anxiety tightening its grip. She waited for the footsteps to fade, then cautiously peeked out. Only her tray, laden with pork steak and cold water, awaited her.

She ate on her queen-sized bed, the silence broken only by the incessant rain. Another day, another meal, another wave of emptiness. Her mother's decision to isolate her was for protection, she knew. Yet, a bitter taste lingered. Protection or prison?

Her gaze fell to her spoon, its convex surface distorting her reflection. She leaned closer. Two small horns, rough and pointy, protruded from her head. She touched them, wishing they would vanish. This was why. This was her curse, her reason for confinement.

Then, a knock. A different knock. Her mother’s voice, soft yet authoritative, cut through the rain. “Zheira, it’s me. May I come in?”