A Place that isn’t Home

The wind howled outside like it knew she was alone. Sylvie-Rue Elowen Vale didn’t flinch. She just sat there—small, still, and curled up in the corner of a room that hadn’t known warmth in years. Her back pressed to the peeling wall, one shoulder braced against the floorboards, knees pulled tight to her chest beneath a blanket so thin it barely qualified as protection. She didn’t shiver. Not anymore. Her body had grown used to the cold the way others grew used to silence—gradually, painfully, until the absence of warmth became its own kind of numb comfort.

The building around her creaked in protest as another gust of wind slipped through the broken window. The glass had shattered long ago, leaving jagged remnants like teeth in a rotted mouth. A makeshift curtain of garbage bags and duct tape fluttered faintly, but didn’t do much to stop the cold. Still, she preferred this place to the one she’d been thrown from hours earlier. This place didn’t talk. Didn’t slap. Didn’t remind her every second that she wasn’t wanted. Here, she was just a shadow. Forgotten. Invisible. She liked it that way.

From the backpack beside her, Rue slowly, carefully, began to unpack her life. Her movements were deliberate—ritualistic. Every item was treated like treasure, though none of it would’ve been worth more than a few dollars to anyone else. First, the blanket. Thin, faded, but folded with precise edges. She laid it flat on the floor and smoothed it with her palm three times—once left to right, once top to bottom, once diagonally. Next came the hoodie. Oversized. Torn at the sleeves. Smelled faintly of detergent and dust. She slipped it on, letting the weight settle over her bony shoulders like armor. Then Rune.

She cradled the bunny for a long moment before setting him down at the top of the blanket, right where her head would rest. She brushed the edge of his ear with a trembling thumb, the familiar motion slowing her heart just a little. His stuffing was lumpy, one eye missing, the thread on his belly held together by safety pins—but he was hers. Rune always came first. She pulled out a tiny flashlight—scuffed and scratched, a strip of pink floral tape wrapped around the handle—and clicked it on. A soft yellow circle lit up the ceiling above her, casting gentle shadows that danced when the wind shook the building. She set it beside Rune, angled just right. She couldn’t sleep in the dark. Not anymore.

Darkness meant too many memories. Too many hands. Too many nights when silence wasn’t enough to keep the monsters at bay. Once her corner was arranged, she pulled her knees back up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Rune fit in the crook of her elbow, where she could still stroke his ear without looking. Back and forth. Slow and steady. Her stomach growled again. She ignored it. There were only a few broken crackers in a bag inside her pack. She counted them earlier—seven. Enough for two days, maybe three if she pretended she wasn’t hungry. Maybe if she stopped by the soup kitchen tomorrow morning before the rush.

She hated going there. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many whispered voices saying things they thought she couldn’t hear.

“That’s that mute girl.”

“She gives me the creeps.”

“Bet she’s crazy.”

She wasn’t crazy. She just learned that being silent kept her safe. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. Cracks stretched across the plaster like veins, one long fissure running above where her head would be. She traced it with her eyes as she rocked slightly, a barely-there movement—just enough to remind her body it still existed. In this building, she had no name. No expectations. No yelling. Just silence. And silence was a kind of freedom. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. But it didn’t hurt.

She lay down slowly, curling on her side so that her back stayed against the wall. One hand clutched Rune, the other held the edge of the blanket close under her chin. Her flashlight stayed on, casting its quiet glow across the splintered floor. She stared into the light for a long time, not blinking. Sleep didn’t come easily. Not ever. Not when her muscles were trained to flinch at every sound. Not when her mind knew to stay half-awake just in case a door opened or footsteps approached. But tonight… the silence stayed.

The wind moaned through the window, but it didn’t call her names. The floor creaked, but no one shouted her down the hall. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers relaxed against Rune’s fur. And eventually, her eyes fluttered closed. No dreams. Just stillness. The kind of stillness that didn’t heal—but didn’t harm either. And for Sylvie-Rue Elowen Vale. that was more than enough.

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