“Finally, it’s not raining anymore!”

The words burst out of me in a triumphant cry as I pressed my face against the window. Outside, clouds were scattering like sheep after a wolf’s visit, and strips of pale sunlight were tumbling down across the soaked village rooftops. The sound of dripping was the only reminder of the endless storm that had plagued me for—how many days had it been? Seven? Ten? A century? I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d just slept through several decades.

I tossed the yarn ball I’d been mangling for hours onto the floor. It bounced once, rolled lazily under the chair, and stayed there, probably mocking me in silence. Atlas had brought it home days ago, after I’d complained about dying of boredom. At first, he’d given me books—practical, boring, no-romance-anywhere books. “Ten Ways to Grow Your Crops.” “Why Tomatoes Are Considered Fruits.” I swear, those were real titles. Do you know how soul-crushing it is to wake up without your memories and then be offered agriculture pamphlets as your only form of entertainment?

I’d lasted through one and a half books before declaring that if he didn’t bring me something else, I’d walk out and start farming tomatoes myself out of spite.

So he’d returned with yarn. Lovely, colorful yarn. A thoughtful gift.

And here was the truth: I was terrible at crocheting. Really, spectacularly bad. My scarf looked like a net designed to catch fish. Atlas said i was pretty good at it, but what could i espect from a liar?

Enough was enough.

I sprang away from the window and bolted into the kitchen, where Atlas stood by the hearth again, sleeves rolled, cooking. The smell of herbs and something savory filled the air, making my stomach remind me who held true power in this household- anyway, its not like i can change that.

“Atlas!”

He turned around slowly, like a man who already suspected trouble was about to leap from my mouth.

“Did you get bored of the yarn too?” His tone was maddeningly calm, the faintest lilt of amusement hiding beneath.

I planted my hands on my hips. “No—I mean, yes—well, technically I hate crocheting with every fiber of my being, but that’s not the point. Look!”

I pointed dramatically toward the open window. Outside, golden light filtered into the world, crisp and fresh.

“The rain stopped!” I announced as though declaring a national holiday.

He looked. He acknowledged. He returned his attention to stirring the pot.

“Can I…”

“No.”

The swiftness of it stunned me. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I knew what you were going to ask.”

“You’re not psychic,” I huffed.

“You wanted to go outside.”

“Exactly! So—”

“It’s cold outside.”

My mouth fell open. “Cold? It’s sunny!”

“It’s still wet.”

“Ugh—!” I threw my arms up. “You’re impossible.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even raise his voice. Just kept cooking, like denying me freedom was as casual as seasoning soup.

I stomped across the floor and slumped against the table. “Do you realize,” I said, glaring at the back of his head, “that you’ve turned me into a prisoner in my own… well, I don’t even know if this is my home, but it’s where I’m stuck, so it counts!”

He hummed faintly in response. Hummed. Like I was a bird chirping outside the window instead of a desperate woman losing her sanity.

“You let me read farming manuals but won’t let me breathe fresh air,” I complained, kicking lightly at the chair leg. “You handed me yarn when clearly I have two left hands, but forbid me from even walking to the village. What kind of twisted logic is this?”

“The kind that keeps you safe,” he said simply, setting the ladle down.

“Safe from what? Puddles?”

He finally turned toward me, silver eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Yes.”

I gasped, clutching my chest. “You’re joking!”

“Am I?”

“Yes!”

He tilted his head just enough to make me question whether he was, in fact, joking.

“Ugh—you annoying man!” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

Silence. Then, the faint sound of him plating food, the clink of ceramic bowls. I peeked through my fingers and saw him bring a dish to the table, setting it before me with such unshakable calm it made me want to scream.

I stared at the steaming food, then at him. “Do you know what boredom does to a person?”

“Feeds imagination,” he said, sitting down opposite me.

“Feeds insanity, more like,” I muttered. “If I don’t get some sunlight, I’ll shrivel up into a raisin.”

“You like raisins.”

“That’s not the point!”

He ate in silence, every movement elegant, every refusal to rise to my bait more infuriating. I picked at my food, stabbing at the poor vegetables with my spoon, while my brain worked furiously.

Fine. If he wouldn’t let me out, then I’d take matters into my own hands.

I glanced at him over my spoon. He was too careful, always watching. Always hovering. I’d have to be clever. I’d have to wait.

A plan began to take shape in my mind. I’d wait until he left the house again—he always did, every day, though he never explained where. The second that door closed behind him, I’d be gone. Out the window if I had to. I’d breathe in the world, storm or no storm, cold or no cold.

I suppressed the smile tugging at my lips, lowering my gaze to my food.

“Yes, Atlas,” I said sweetly, putting on my most innocent tone. “I’ll stay put. An obedient raisin.”

His silver eyes flicked to me. A pause.

“I don’t believe you,” he said calmly.

My spoon clattered against the bowl. “Wh—why not?”

“You’re too agreeable, all of a sudden.”

I coughed. “Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf! Ever thought of that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Leaves don’t change midwinter.”

Oh, for—!

I forced a smile, feeling it twitch at the corners. “You really don’t trust me?”

He leaned back, gaze steady. “Not when you look like you’re planning a crime.”

I choked on my food. “I am not! You’re paranoid!”

Silence again. That infuriating silence where he didn’t even bother answering, just let my words hang in the air like confessions.

Fine. Let him think what he wanted. I’d still find a way out.

I stabbed another piece of vegetable, muttering under my breath. You can guard me all you want, Atlas, but I’ll outsmart you. Just you wait.

So, i waited for him to leave.but before that he started nagging.

“Dont try to clean. I ll do it once im back. And the broom is hiddem somewhere in the house so you can t reach it.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t try cooking.The cooking ustensil are locked into the storage. Don t break in. And if you are hungry, there s food in the kitchen.”

“Yes”

“Don t get too close to the fireplace. Its still cold outside so i ll let it run”

“Yes, i ll be a good raisin.”

“…”

The moment Atlas left, I sat there, arms crossed, scowling like a child who’d just been told she couldn’t have sweets before dinner. He had given me his usual list of commandments—don’t clean, don’t cook, don’t stand too close to the fireplace—and I had nodded along.

The way he had looked at me after that, silent and suspicious, had nearly cracked me. But I held firm. The moment the door closed, my freedom began.

Or so I thought.

I practically sprinted to my room and yanked at the window. Locked.

“When did he even lock the windows…?” I muttered, rattling the latch like an angry cat pawing at glass. My blood boiled hotter with each clink. I dashed to the front door. Locked as well.

Of course it was.

“Fuck,” I hissed, clutching my head. “What am I supposed to do? Smash it open?”

My gaze roamed the room, calculating. Chair? Possible. Heavy enough, though a little clunky. The table? Too much noise, and too big. And then—oh, glory be—I saw it.

The book.

The Guide for ‘All the Vegetables There Are’.

That fat, overstuffed, useless encyclopedia of green things winked at me from the tabletop. For days it had sat there, taking up precious space, taunting me with knowledge about legumes I never asked for. But now? Now it gleamed in my sight like a sword forged for destiny.

Perfect weapon. Perfect size.

I marched to the table, snatched the book up with both hands, and felt its immense weight drag at my wrists. “You’re finally useful,” I whispered to it, as if the cursed thing could hear. “Goodbye, window.”

I staggered toward the glass, raising the book over my shoulder—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Kyaaaaah!”

I spun, shrieked, and dropped the vegetable bible right onto my foot.

“AGH!” The pain shot up my leg, my toes screaming bloody murder. I collapsed into a crouch, clutching my foot like I’d just got struck by a war hammer.

Atlas was suddenly there, crouching beside me, his calm mask flickering with alarm. “Aisa, are you alright?”

“When did you—?! You left! The door was locked!”

“I waited outside for a bit,” he admitted “and then came back.”

My jaw dropped. “You… you—what kind of suspicious stalker move is that?!”

He tilted his head. “Careful.”

“Careful?! My foot is smashed because of your vegetable book!”

He ignored my accusation and slipped an arm around me, gently coaxing me upright. “Lean on me.”

“Like hell I would—”

My foot throbbed. My pride crumbled.

“Fine,” I muttered, leaning against him, humiliated by the thought of how solid and warm he felt. He guided me back to bed as if I weighed no more than a feather and settled me against the pillows. He even tucked a cushion beneath my injured foot with absurd care.

Defeated. Gracefully, of course. But still defeated.

‘Why was that book so heavy?!’ I groaned internally, glaring at it from across the room. It lay innocently on the floor, as though it hadn’t just betrayed me.

Yes. A bloody betrayer.

Atlas straightened, brushing invisible dust from his hands, and gave me that look. The one that was equal parts patient and disappointed.

“Would you like to explain,” he began slowly, “why you were about to smash the window with… that?”

I averted my eyes, feigning innocence. “I was… airing the book out.”

“Airing it… out.”

“Yes. Books need… air.”

His silence was louder than thunder.

“Fine!” I snapped. “I was going to use it to break the window, alright? Happy now?”

He exhaled, long and quiet, as though bracing himself against a storm. “Aisa…”

“Oh, don’t Aisa me!” I jabbed a finger at him. “You locked me in here like a prisoner! What was I supposed to do? Knit scarves until I die? Learn how to grow zucchinis?”

His lips twitched—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but dangerously close. “You were supposed to rest.”

“I’ve been resting for days! Weeks! I’ve rested enough to last a lifetime!”

“You nearly injured yourself in the process of escaping,” he pointed out.

“Because your book weighs as much as a Mammoth pumpkin!”

His brows rose, faint amusement glinting in his silver eyes. “If you ask me, the book isnt that heavy.”

I gasped. “Are you… mocking me right now?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said smoothly.

“You are mocking me!”

I crossed my arms, sinking deeper into the pillows. My foot throbbed miserably, traitorously reminding me of my defeat. Atlas sat at the edge of the bed, close but not too close, studying me with that maddening calm of his.

“You don’t trust me,” I muttered at last, glaring at the ceiling.

“You don’t make it easy either.” he replied evenly.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t try to break windows if you didn’t lock me inside!”

Silence followed. Heavy, suffocating silence. I dared a glance at him. His expression was unreadable, his long pale hair catching the firelight like strands of moonlight.

“You are not porcelain,” he said calmly. “But you are hurt. And until you’re stronger, I’ll keep you safe.”

The softness in his voice made my chest tighten. I hated that it almost disarmed me. Almost.

“Safe doesn’t mean locked up,” I whispered fiercely.

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he adjusted the pillow under my foot with careful hands, as if tending to me could speak louder than words.

I let out a long, dramatic sigh, throwing an arm over my eyes. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll bide my time. But one day… one day I’ll touch grass again.”

“…Grass?”

“Yes, grass!” I peeked at him through my arm. “The outside world, remember? Sunlight, breeze, trees, dirt—you can’t keep me away forever!”

His lips curved slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at them. “We’ll see.”

I gasped. “That’s denial?!”

His smile vanished, his face returning to its infuriating calmness. “Rest, Aisa.”

I groaned dramatically into the pillow. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” he murmured, standing to stoke the fire, “you lean on me when it counts.”

I froze, heat rushing to my cheeks. “T-that’s only because of the book! I couldn’t walk so i had to accept my defeat!”

“Of course.”

The smugness in his tone made me want to throw the pillow at his head. But my foot still hurt, so I refrained.

For now.

Instead, I lay there plotting. If I couldn’t break a window, maybe I could fake an illness dramatic enough to lure a healer into the house. Or—my eyes flicked back to the book—use it as a step stool next time.

One way or another, I was going to escape.

And Atlas?

He was going to regret ever underestimating me.