When Mama and I moved into this house, I was 5 years old. She helped me navigate around the house. 'You can live just like a normal girl. All you need to do is remember how many steps each area is,' Mama said. The house seemed to shrink as I grew older. My bedroom used to be 20 steps, but it decreased to only 10, and the bookshelf that used to be 9 steps from my bedroom,it became just 3 steps away. The one thing that remained unchanged over the years was the number of stairs leading to the basement.

I didn't attend school as there was no place for me. Mama took matters into her own hands and educated me with books that she carefully chose to bring with us when we left. She believed the best method was for her to read while I listened and memorized. Soon, there was nothing new left for me to learn, and it became a monotonous cycle of the same dull texts, allowing me to wander around the clock.

...This place doesn't feel like home. I wonder where Mama might be, and beside me sits a man claiming to be my father, talking about an ophthalmologist who performed my eye surgery. He goes on about how soon I will be able to see the world again. After some time, he leaves with a weak excuse. What surgery is he talking about? Maybe these new scents and sounds are making me a little confused. Is this a dream? Could it all be a delusion? Perhaps I'm at home in bed with a fever. I recall a similar experience once or twice before when I fell ill, and Mama referred to it as... What did she call it? I feel a warm liquid coming down my cheeks, having a scent of anger and disappointment, and a sour, bitter taste... my head is pounding. I remember something I studied about death. Maybe it's happening to me. Suddenly, a loud beep rings out, making a lot of people rush into the room. Am I real? I wonder...