Chapter 1

I am mute.

When I was five, I called out that I was hungry, and my foster mother locked me in the basement.

She said I could come out the moment I learned to shut my mouth.

From that day on, I stopped speaking.

The year I turned eighteen, the Ashford family of Boston found me. They said I was their biological daughter.

My first night back home, Vivienne — the girl who had lived in my place — packed her bags with red-rimmed eyes.

"My sister won't even call me her sister. She doesn't want me in this house."

"I don't have to make it hard for anyone. I'll leave on my own!"

I froze for a moment, then lifted my hands to sign:

No — I just can't speak.

But no one in the living room understood sign language.

Vivienne bit her lip, and fresh tears slid down her face.

"I know you hate me for stealing eighteen years of your life."

"You can curse me, hit me — but why won't you say even one word to me?"

My brother Julian stepped between us, giving me a cold look.

"Vivienne has already backed down. How much further do you want to push her?"

"Say something. Right now. Tell her there's room for her in this family."

They were all waiting for me to speak.

I stayed silent for a long time. Then I took my phone out of my pocket and typed, letter by letter:

I'm sorry. I haven't spoken since I was five.

...

The living room fell dead quiet.

My mother was the first to recover.

She walked over in a few quick strides, her lips trembling.

"What do you mean? What do you mean, you haven't spoken since you were five?"

I raised my hands to tell her —

Every time I tried to make a sound, that windowless basement rose up before my eyes.

But she couldn't understand.

I could only lower my head and keep typing.

I can't get the words out.

Julian's brows drew together.

"When we found you, your foster parents didn't mention anything about this."

My fingers paused.

The day the Ashfords found me, Martha had clutched my hand so tightly it hurt, sobbing herself nearly senseless in front of the lawyer and the DNA tester.

She said she had raised me as her own, wanted nothing in return, and only hoped I wouldn't forget her after I left.

Not once, from beginning to end, had she asked me anything.

Because she knew, better than anyone —

I couldn't answer.

Vivienne suddenly set down her suitcase and approached me, cautious as if I might break.

"Sister, I'm sorry. I didn't know you couldn't speak."

"I must have misunderstood earlier and upset you."

She reached for my hand.

The instant her fingertips touched my wrist, I flinched backward.

Her eyes reddened at once.

"You still don't want me to touch you?"

Julian's face, which had just begun to soften, hardened again.

"Elena. Vivienne has already apologized."

I looked at him and didn't move.

But my mother caught his arm.

"Enough, Julian."

"It's Elena's first day home. Don't push her."

She reached up as if to touch my cheek.

Her hand stopped halfway, and — as though afraid to startle me — she only lightly straightened my crooked collar.

"Tomorrow, Mom will take you to see a doctor."

"Whatever the reason is, we'll treat it, one step at a time."

I nodded.

That night, I slept for the first time on a bed so soft it seemed to swallow me.

But I didn't dare turn off the light.

In the middle of the night, hushed voices drifted through the door.

"Julian... do you think maybe she just doesn't want to call any of us by name, so she's pretending she can't speak?"

Vivienne's voice, small, tinged with tears.

Julian was quiet for a moment.

"We'll know once the doctor's done examining her."

"And... what if it's real?"

"Then we'll get her the best treatment."

"What if it isn't?"

"..."

Silence outside the door.

A moment later, Julian's voice, cool and even:

"The Ashfords can make room for a daughter who is ill."

"But not for a liar."

...

The next day, our family physician, Dr. Harrison, ran a full battery of tests on me and finally removed his stethoscope.

"There is no organic abnormality in her vocal apparatus."

"This is not pathological aphasia."

"Given her presentation, it's more consistent with psychogenic mutism — brought on by severe psychological trauma."

My mother's face went white.

"What kind of trauma would keep a child... from speaking for thirteen years?"

Dr. Harrison's eyes settled on the faint old scars along my wrist.

"That, I'm afraid, is a question for whoever raised her."

Vivienne stood by the doorway.

The expression on her face stiffened, just for an instant.

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