Breaking the rule

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door."

For countless cycles of light and dark, she had obeyed. Ever since the two men had taken her away, the cabin’s walls were all she knew. She used to mark time by scratches on the floor, tallying the periods between their visits, but now she just felt it—a heartbeat of monotony and fear.

They would come silently, the door swinging open without even a whisper of a click, bringing her food and expressionless stares. She never saw where they came from or where they went. At first, she cried and begged, but long ago, emotions had been swallowed by the quiet madness of acceptance. Her curiosity lay buried beneath layers of survival instinct—don't open the door.

Still, recently a restless part within her had begun defying her. Eyes that were once afraid now lingered on the door with wonder, her fingers twitching, imagining what might lie beyond. Perhaps it was something more than another harsh face bringing sustenance.

Once, exhausted by relentless thoughts, she had dreamt. The dream spoke of a room bathed in golden light, not confined and dark. Awake, the vividness remained with her, a beacon behind her eyes, persistent against her logic.

And then she acted. One slow breath, then another. Her hand trembled as it settled on the handle, ghostly cold from her own fears. The whisper of dusty air tickled her fingertips as part of the rule fractured.

The door creaked on unseen hinges; her world exploded into color—the rough greens of leaves far above, the brilliant gold of sun rays piercing through the canopy, painting the floor with unimagined hues.

For the first time, she felt warmth before she closed her eyes to soak it in.