Atlas barely left the house after the book-on-foot incident.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rarely, if ever.

 

Like some giant watchdog perched by the door. Always watching. Always nagging.

 

“Don’t strain yourself.”

 

“Stay warm.”

 

“Don’t go near the windows.”

 

‘Annoying bastard.’

 

But I wasn’t about to surrender. No, sir. Not me.

 

I’d already tried stealing the keys when he slept—unsuccessful. He woke up the moment i stepped into his room. Once, I tried tossing things at him until he got annoyed enough to shoo me out. That failed too. The man had the patience of a saint—or worse, the patience of someone who enjoyed to suffer.

 

Then came my masterpiece: faking illness.

 

“Cough, cough,” I croaked one afternoon, clutching my chest with Oscar-worthy despair. “My husband…”

 

Atlas barely looked up from mending the hem of his shirt with a needle and a thread, barely concerned by my sickened appearance. “…Yes?”

 

“My darling,” I wheezed, flopping dramatically against the pillow. “I don’t have much time left, so, I beg you…”

 

“…Mmh.”

 

“Please,” I whispered, forcing a single tear down my cheek. “Let me see the sun one last time.”

 

“No.”

 

“AGHH!”

 

I collapsed back onto the bed, clutching my chest for real this time, because surely my heart couldn’t withstand this level of cruelty.

 

 

But giving up? Me? Never.

 

There had to be a way out. And if there wasn’t, I’d invent one.

 

I sat by the window one gloomy afternoon, glaring at the drizzle outside while Atlas dozed in his chair by the fireplace. My brain churned like a suspicious stew. He never left me alone long enough for a real escape. The moment I twitched, he twitched. If I sneezed, he’d hand me a cloth before I even reached for one. The man was infuriatingly efficient.

 

So I needed something dramatic. Something big.

 

Something like…

 

…fire.

 

Not a big one, of course. I wasn’t suicidal. Just big enough to send him scrambling, all focused on saving the house. While he ran around like the noble saviour he was, I’d slip out unnoticed and vanish into glorious, grass-filled freedom.

 

Yes. Perfect plan.

 

My room upstairs would be the target. After all, it was the only room entirely mine. He slept downstairs on that ridiculous couch, which meant he’d see the smoke quickly. That gave me just enough time to dart down the stairs, through the hall, and out the door before he caught on.

 

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

 

‘You genius,’ I congratulated myself. ‘You may not be good at crocheting or reading Vegetable Guides, but arson? Arson might be your call.’

 

 

 

Of course, execution required finesse. I couldn’t be caught in the act. I imagined it: me crouched over a suspiciously growing flame, Atlas standing in the doorway, his silver eyes narrowing. He’d probably extinguish it with a single move. No, I needed to be clever.

 

I waited. Watched.

 

The house layout was simple: the hallway below, his eternal resting spot in the middle, the kitchen on the far side, and my room above.

 

The stage was set.

 

And so, one fateful afternoon, while Atlas brewed something in his room, I crept upstairs. My heart thudded so hard I thought it might give me away. I closed the door behind me and surveyed my kingdom one last time. Bed, desk, blanket—soon to be part of my grand scheme.

 

I gathered a small pile of kindling: papers, stray yarn, even a sock or two. Nothing too suspicious. Nothing too dangerous. Just enough to make it believable. I hesitated only a moment before moving the sock into the candle light.

 

A thin thread of smoke curled up like the finger of freedom itself. My pulse raced.

 

‘Perfect.’

 

I darted out of the room after throwing the sock, going down the stairs, and ducked into the kitchen, crouching behind the counter like the criminal mastermind I was.

 

Now, I waited.

 

 

 

It didn’t take long.

 

“…Aisa?” His voice drifted from the main room.

 

My stomach flipped. I peeked around the counter.

 

Atlas had risen, nose lifted slightly, eyes narrowing. He moved to the base of the stairs, tilting his head. The faintest wisp of smoke had begun to slither from the upper floor.

 

Bingo.

 

“Stay here,” he called, already climbing.

 

I bit back a victorious cackle. Yes, husband dearest. Go play fireman while I taste freedoom!

 

The second his head disappeared up the stairs, I darted into his room. My eyes landed instantly on it, sitting innocently on the table as though it hadn’t ruined my life.

 

‘The Guide for All the Vegetables There Are’.

 

That traitor. That mocker of dreams. That brick of wasted parchment!!

 

But today, oh today, it would earn its redemption.

 

“Don’t disappoint me this time,” I hissed, hefting it up. It was just as heavy as before, pressing against my arms like a sack of rocks.

 

I crept to the window, heart pounding so loud I was sure even Atlas upstairs could hear it. I raised the book high, gritted my teeth, and slammed it with all my might.

 

CRASH!

 

Glass exploded outward in a glorious spray. The sound was symphonic—my personal anthem of rebellion.

 

“Yes!” I gasped, triumphant, holding the book aloft like a victorious warrior. 

 

Not wasting a second, I cleared away enough of the shards with the spine of the vegetable tome, then scrambled through. My skirts snagged slightly, but I tugged free and landed outside with a thump.

 

After finishing its lifelong purpose, i dropped the heavy book away from my foot, on the grass.

 

Grass.

 

Cold, damp, perfect grass.

 

My toes curled in it. My lungs drank in air that wasn’t stale with smoke or firewood. My skin prickled with a breeze that hadn’t been filtered through shutters.

 

“Freedom,” I whispered, dazed.

 

And then—because one does not hesitate when one is victorious—I ran.

 

I ran like a deer from a hunter, like a prisoner from the gallows.

 

The forest swallowed me whole. Leaves slapped my face, branches clawed at my hair, roots tried to snare my feet—but nothing could stop me.

 

 

The forest thinned. My breath came ragged, my chest burned, but I didn’t slow. I couldn’t. Every step was victory. Every stumble, proof of my defiance.

 

And then—I saw it.

 

The trees opened to reveal rooftops. Chimneys. Smoke rising peacefully into the now-cleared sky.

 

A village.

 

Civilization.

 

Real people. Real chatter. 

 

Tears pricked my eyes. My pace quickened.

 

I broke out of the forest and into the dirt road that led straight to the village square. The sight of people hit me like sunlight after rain. Women hanging laundry. Children playing tag. Old men arguing on benches. The normalcy of it, the sheer unremarkable ordinary-ness, was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

 

I staggered into the square, disheveled, wild-eyed. But I didn’t care.

 

“I’M FREE!” I screamed, half laughter, half sob.

 

Dozens of heads turned.

 

For a heartbeat, silence fell. My grin widened. Finally. Finally, I had escaped the suffocating grip of Atlas’s endless rules and could start demanding answers.

 

 For the first time in weeks, I stood outside without Atlas hovering over my shoulder, without being told not to touch knives, not to dirty my hands, not to move an inch without supervision.

 

For the first time, I felt air on my skin, sunlight in my eyes, earth beneath my feet.

 

I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and laughed.

 

A wild, unrestrained laugh that rang down the empty square.

 

“I did it,” I whispered. “I finally did it.”

 

I lifted my arms, and spun in a slow, giddy circle.

 

The sky stretched wide above me, endless and bright. The village, for all its fearful stares, was still a place filled with life. And most importantly—Atlas was nowhere in sight.

 

Ah, yes. Fearful stares

 

And then—

 

The woman with the laundry basket gasped and dropped it, linens tumbling into the mud.

 

A child froze mid-step, then shrieked and darted behind his mother’s skirts.

 

An old man watering his garden staggered back, dropping his can, his lips moving in a prayer.

 

More villagers noticed. Whispers flared. Wide, terrified eyes locked on me. Shutters slammed. Doors clapped shut. Within moments, the bustling square had emptied as though a monster had appeared.

 

Only I stood there. 

 

“…What,” I said aloud, blinking. “Do I look that bad? Dont worry, im not a forest witch”

 

I look down at my barefoot, mud-stained legs and dirty clothes.

 

Silence answered.

 

The woman by the laundry clutched her child and whispered, voice trembling, “…A-a crazy witch!”

 

I squinted. “Excuse me? I m perfectly sane, thank you. Even thought i was imprisoned for almost a month or maybe even more, but i can’t remember.”

 

I approach the woman.

“Hello. I m your neighbour. I live in that small house in the forest.”

 

“… dont get closer!”

 

The woman left the laundry to the floor and ran away with her kid.

 

‘…Jeez. How can i speak with my neighbours when every one of them thinks that I am crazy?’

 

The square stayed eerily silent long after my victorious spin.

 

I stopped, breathless, chest heaving from laughter and running, only to realize that not a single soul had dared step back outside. The shutters were still clamped shut. Doors remained bolted. The once-bustling street was now so empty I could hear the wind dragging dust across the cobblestones.

 

“…Okay, weird,” I muttered. “Either I look like I crawled out of a swamp, or everyone here is allergic to joy.”

 

No answer. Just the creak of a sign swinging overhead.

 

I pressed on, walking. My skirt brushed the ground, still damp from the forest’s mud, and my bare feet ached, but adrenaline pushed me forward.

 

Each house I passed had the same pattern: curtains tugged shut, and silence. Once, I caught the flash of an eye peeking through a crack before vanishing again.

 

“Right,” I said to myself, arms crossed. “They’re terrified of me. Perfect. I leave one maniac of a husband behind and apparently inherit an entire village full of paranoia. Is this my life now?”

 

Still, the smell of baked bread teased my nose. My stomach rumbled. I followed it, ignoring the tight knots of unease twisting in my belly.

 

At the end of the main street, I spotted it: an inn. Its sign, shaped like a tankard, swung gently in the breeze. The door was closed, but light glowed from the cracks.

 

Finally. Civilization. And the smell of food. 

 

I pushed at the door. It creaked open.

 

The air inside was warm, filled with the scent of roasted meat and ale. Tables stood ready, chairs tucked neatly, and a fire burned in the hearth. 

 

I stepped inside, boots crunching faintly. “Hello?” I called, voice echoing too loud in the emptiness.

 

Silence answered.

 

For a second, I wondered if this was some elaborate hallucination and i might have gone mad for real.

 

Then, finally, movement.

 

From behind the counter, a man emerged. Middle-aged, apron tied around his waist, eyes sharp and cautious as they fixed on me. He didn’t greet me. Didn’t even pretend to smile. He just studied me.

 

“…Outsiders arent welcome here.” he said at last, voice low.

 

 

I froze. My victory buzz fizzled. “Excuse me? I walked through a forest, broke a window, and nearly set myself on fire to get here. I think I’ve earned the right to sit down and demand something edible.”

 

His gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.

 

“… What?”