EPISODE 2
A room. Too quiet. The silence was palpable, to the point where one would think it was inhabited and devoid of life.
A woman, face unreadable, sat motionless, her slender fingers dancing across the laptop keyboard with a soft clack-clack rhythm. The dim glow of the screen illuminated her face, casting an ethereal light on her features. Her eyes were fixed intently on the words flowing onto the page, her expression serene and unreadable.
It was as if time itself had slowed, and all that existed was the woman, the laptop, and the words pouring out of her. She wrote on, lost in her world of words, her fingers moving with a life of their own.
Irene Wynter (FL)
"It’s done… finally. Now let's celebrate the silence."
* She closed her laptop with a soft thud and went towards the kitchen.*
She made a cup of coffee and a grilled sandwich. Took a book from her bookshelf and went towards her room. She sat on the brink of her balcony and briefly looked outside.
Clouds curled around each other in agony. Dark. Ready to break into tears anytime. Occasionally lightning, soon overpowered by light music as she wore headphones. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the damp soil and resumed her almost half read book.
Chapter 8 : 𝑨 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓
No one talks about that one.
The quiet chapter.
The one torn out.
The one where I stopped laughing.
Where my toys stayed in the box.
Where I stopped asking for bedtime stories
because the dark outside was kinder than the voices inside.
It wasn’t loud.
Not like the other nights.
Just… quiet.
Too quiet.
She told me I was useless.
He called me a burden.
And I believed them.
Because I was little.
And they were everything.
That chapter—
the one no one asks about—
that’s where I folded.
Like laundry no one ever wears.
Neat. Invisible. Silent.
They forgot it.
But I didn’t.
I live there sometimes.
Still.
Irene Wynter (FL)
* She quietly sips her coffee and turned the page.*
Every broken piece of me relived the memories. A chapter everyone wanted to erase. Including me. A bundle of few papers left in the dust and shadows to be forgotten.
"You were late," she said.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it curled like smoke around my neck.
I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to.
I just didn’t know what the right answer was anymore.
Sometimes silence was safer.
She said I was lazy.
She said I was lucky she even fed me.
She said I should say thank you when I wake up in a house with a roof.
Even if the roof leaked when it rained.
Even if the floor creaked like it wanted to scream, too.
"You forget things on purpose," she told me.
I didn’t.
I tried so hard to remember.
The steps. The chores. The way she wanted the table set, or the way her tea should taste.
I memorized her moods like multiplication tables—
Except if I got those wrong, the punishment wasn’t bruises.
She threw the plate once.
Not at me.
Just… close enough that I learned to flinch at kindness too.
"I do all this for you," she’d whisper,
as if love was something she buried in the shouting,
and I was just too ungrateful to find it.
So I worked.
Folded things neatly.
Scrubbed away my feelings with soap that burned my fingers.
Smiled when guests came, like a buttoned-up secret.
Spoke when spoken to.
And sometimes, not even then.
She said it was love.
And I believed her.
Because I was a child.
And children believe the people who tuck them in
—even if those hands are the same ones that hurt them.
Irene Wynter (FL)
*She closed her book and placed it in her desk lazily. As if she lost her interest in it.*
"Cliché. Tragic kid with trust issues. ......alright, poet. Ease up."
"Pain taught me how to stand still when I want to run."
Irene means peace. But peace doesn’t always mean softness.
Sometimes, it means survival.
Wynter, not misspelled but reimagined — frost traced in elegance,
a cold that soothes, then stings.
Together, a whisper stitched in ice.
Graceful. Distant. Unforgettable.
There was something about her — the way silence clung to her like perfume. The kind that lingers even after she's gone. The kind that makes people pause without knowing why.
25 years. She stood at 5'5", poised like a painting no one dared to touch.
Slender frame, movements measured. Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed.
Even the air around her becomes careful.
Her skin, pale with a soft olive undertone, held a kind of muted glow — not glittering, not radiant, but quiet. Like dusk clinging to glass. Like light remembering how to be gentle.
And then there were her eyes.
One blue — glacier cold, like the kind of ice that doesn't melt.
One green — sharp and vivid, like a question you couldn’t answer.
Together, they didn’t clash. They stared.
Like they were reading two different truths from the same world.
She didn’t smile often. When she did, it was almost... sad.
Or worse — knowing.
The kind of smile that said I’ve already lived through the part you’re scared of.
She runs a company the way some people ran wars — with discipline, grace, and the understanding that not every victory is soft.
They called her composed. Mature. Mysterious.
They didn’t know she was just… tired.
Not the kind of tired you sleep off.
The kind you bury. Quietly. Elegantly.
And build empires on top of.
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