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Chapter 1: The Door Between Us
Chapter 2: The Quiet Before the Storm
Chapter 3: The Weight of Silence
THE VIOLIN RESTED UNTOUCHED at the edge of my bed, gleaming in the dim light like an unspoken promise I no longer knew how to keep. It called to me, but I was afraid to respond.
I couldn't bring myself to touch it—not with Gregor's door locked, and the air in this house so thick with dread it felt like breathing through wool. The violin would have to wait. I had too much to do—yet nothing that could change anything. Instead, I threw myself into tasks with frantic energy, scrubbing floors, polishing windows, and ironing linens. Every corner of the house gleamed under my hands. But no amount of work could hide the cracks beneath. The house looked perfect, but it was an illusion. It was a fragile veneer masking something broken, something no scrubbing could fix.
Dust was everywhere—not just on the furniture, but in the air, settling into the fabric of our lives. It clung to our words, our silences, our every movement. We no longer spoke much. We didn't need to. The house spoke for us; the dust silently witnessed the unraveling that had begun long ago. The harder I worked, the more I felt the weight of the despair that had settled over us. It was like an unwelcome guest, lingering, refusing to leave.
By midday, the whispers began again. They were sharp, cutting through the silence like tiny needles. The housemaid passed me in the hallway, her voice low, her eyes darting nervously toward the stairs. "That thing in the room," she muttered under her breath. A cold knot twisted in my stomach. That thing? Gregor wasn't a thing. He was my brother, no matter what had happened. But now, he was the thing we feared. And in that moment, I hated myself for not knowing how to stop it.
I fought the urge to snap at her, to remind her of who Gregor had been before all of this. But I didn’t. I was tired of fighting. We were all tired.
The boy passed the house again that afternoon, as he always did. I saw him through the kitchen window, my knife moving through the potatoes mechanically. His footsteps were slower today, unsure, as though weighed down by something invisible. As he passed, he lingered longer than usual, his gaze locked on the second-floor window that led to Gregor's room. I felt a strange pang in my chest. Was he seeing what we all tried so hard to hide? Could he feel the weight of the silence, the burden we carried, or was it just my imagination?
For a brief moment, I imagined him knocking on the door, stepping inside, and breaking the spell that had frozen us all in place. But he didn't. He walked on, his shoulders slumped under a burden I couldn’t name. As he disappeared down the street, my hope vanished with him. There was nothing he could do. Nothing any of us could do. The boy wasn’t a savior. No one was.
I set the knife down, watching the half-peeled potato roll across the table. The boy wasn’t my savior. I wasn’t some tragic figure waiting for someone to come and rescue me. I was Grete Samsa—a girl with calloused hands, a family slowly unraveling, and a silence that choked us all. My life wasn’t a story waiting for a hero. It was a burden I had to carry alone.
As the evening stretched into the night and the house settled into its familiar quiet, I picked up my violin again. It wasn't a decision I made. It was as though the violin itself had called me back. My fingers trembled as they gripped the bow, and when I placed the instrument under my chin, it felt like an old friend, one I had neglected for far too long. The first note faltered. It sounded like an apology. But as I played, the music began to flow more freely, filling the room and wrapping around me like a blanket.
Music had always been my refuge, where I could speak the words I couldn't say. It had once been my voice. But tonight, the music felt different. Every note was an act of defiance, a push against the silence that had taken over our lives. With each passing second, the music grew stronger and louder until the room seemed to pulse with it. The house felt alive again for a few precious moments, the shadows momentarily pushed back by the melody that filled the air.
And then, I heard it.
A sound. Faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable.
The violin's notes faltered as I strained to listen. A rustling noise came from behind Gregor's door, like fabric brushing against the floor. My heart leaped in my chest, a strange mixture of hope and fear building within me. Was he—was he still there?
“Gregor?” I whispered, almost afraid that speaking his name out loud would break the fragile moment. I set the violin down carefully, trying not to disturb the silence. My feet moved cautiously toward his door, each step an intrusion into the stillness. The floorboards creaked beneath me, an unwelcome sound in the heavy silence.
No response. But the rustling came again, more deliberate this time, followed by a soft, guttural groan—a sound that sent a chill down my spine. I pressed my ear to the door, my breath shallow, waiting for some sign that Gregor was still with us.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice a faint plea. “Say something. Let me help you.”
The silence that followed was more profound than before, as though the house had stopped breathing. I leaned closer, desperate for any sign, any sound that would tell me he was still there. But there was nothing—just the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears.
“Grete, leave him be,” my mother’s voice came from behind me, startling me out of my thoughts. She stood in the dim hallway, her frail figure barely visible. Her voice was soft but firm, a quiet command wrapped in fear. "He needs time. That's all."
I wanted to argue, to tell her that time was no longer enough, that something was wrong. But the look in her eyes stopped me. It was the look of someone who had surrendered and accepted that no one could do anything. She was as helpless as I was. As powerless as we all were.
Reluctantly, I stepped back. “Come downstairs,” my mother said, her voice trembling. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”
I followed her, my feet heavy, my heart weighed down with unanswered questions. The silence in the house was suffocating. I couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was waiting out of sight, something I couldn't stop.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, my mind replaying the day's events like a broken record. The boy's hesitant steps, the music that had briefly filled the house, the rustling sounds from Gregor's room. None of it made sense, yet it felt connected to a larger story I couldn't understand.
The violin sat by my bed, its strings catching the faint moonlight. I thought about smashing it for a moment, severing the last tie to a life I could no longer reach. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. The violin was the last piece of me, the only thing that still felt familiar. It was mine.
I told myself I would try again tomorrow. I would bring Gregor another tray. I would keep playing my music. I would keep moving forward, one step at a time. It was all I could do. Even as the silence threatened to swallow me whole, I would keep fighting.
For now, it would have to be enough. And if not now, then someday, when the silence had broken, I would remember how to speak again.
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