Page 78 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Crumbs of Freedom

Lyric lost count of how many times she crept down the hallway, heart pounding, just to hold him.

Noah started to expect her.

Sometimes, when she opened the nursery door, he was already stirring.

When he saw her, his eyes lit up.

He’d reach for her, arms outstretched.

A sleepy smile spreading across his face like he’d been waiting.

Every time, it broke her.

And every time, it healed her.

She fed him when bottles were left nearby.

Rocked him until his lashes fluttered closed again.

Whispered stories she remembered from her own childhood.

Songs her mother had sung—not Eden—Marianne.

He’d wrap his hand around her finger.

Sometimes around a lock of her hair.

And she’d sit in the dark, memorizing the curve of his nose, the shape of his toes, the sound of his breath.

By day, she was someone else.

Still. Weak. Obedient .

She stayed in bed, eyes dull, movements slow. Just enough to look weak.

Mrs. Thornwick would enter sometimes without knocking.

Standing at the edge of the bed, watching.

Her arms crossed. Her eyes hunting for proof of progress.

She never asked how Lyric was feeling.

She just stared.

Once, she smiled faintly and said, “Good girl. Rest while you still can.”

Then turned and left.

Lyric always waited a full hour after those visits before moving.

She kept a mental tally.

Editha came every three or four days.

Never in the middle of the night.

Always after lunch.

Never on Sundays.

She used that schedule to survive.

Her body had continued to strengthen. Quietly.

Bernarda still left protein bars, yogurts, crackers, and other packaged foods. Foods that Lyric could trust weren’t poisoned. Even then, she was still skeptical.

It was enough to stay alive.

Enough to pretend.

But in the quietest hours, Lyric began sneaking further.

Testing her balance first—standing at the edge of the bed after dark.

Then pacing the room.

Then she cracked the door and listened.

And eventually, she slipped down the hall.

Then the stairs.

Then into the kitchen.

She never took much.

Only what wouldn’t be missed—crusts of bread, a cold boiled egg, a spoonful of honey.

She ate it slowly, huddled in the shadows by the cold oven, and returned everything exactly as she found it .

Sometimes, she stuffed her bed with pillows before leaving her room.

Just in case.

It became habit.

---

The first time she approached the back garden doors, she didn’t open them.

She stood there, fingers on the handle, staring through the sheer curtains.

The moonlight glinted on the glass.

The garden beyond looked silver-washed and still.

She breathed in the air that crept through the crack.

Damp. Cold. Clean.

It smelled like something forbidden. Something she wasn’t allowed to want.

---

The next night, she came again.

This time, she opened the door.

The chill kissed her skin. Her breath fogged in the dark.

She stepped out.

The grass was cold beneath her feet.

It clung to her soles like it didn’t want her to leave.

She walked slowly, staying to the edges.

Her body remained wary. Her senses sharpened.

At the far end of the garden, the wall stood tall—rough, cracked, covered in ivy.

She reached out and touched it for the first time in months.

The stone was cold beneath her fingers.

She used to come here to escape the chaos inside. To sit on the bench by this wall and just… breathe.

It reminded her of the graveyard where her parents were buried. The quiet. The stillness. The strange sense of peace.

It was insane, really—how much comfort a wall could bring.

Especially one built to keep her in .

But her hands stayed pressed to it anyway. Because it was solid. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, so was she.

She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the stone, and whispered, “ Almost Free .”

---

She returned the next night.

And the night after that.

Each time, sitting on the stone bench nestled by the wall, her robe pulled tightly around her.

She didn’t dare go further.

The wall was too tall to climb.

She couldn’t leave without Noah.

Maybe she was waiting for a sign—or a miracle.

---

On the fourth night, it came.

She was sitting on the bench, eyes half-closed, when she heard it.

A whisper.

Faint. Male.

From the other side of the wall:

“Hello?”

Lyric froze.

Her blood went cold.

She turned her head slightly, barely breathing.

Silence.

Then again:

“Is someone there?”

Panic surged.

She ran.

Didn’t stop to listen again.

Didn’t dare answer.

She darted back across the grass, into the house, locked the door behind her, and leaned her back against it .

Her chest heaved. Her hands shook.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Not because she was afraid of being caught—but because if they found out, they’d lock her door again.

She wouldn’t get to hold Noah—wouldn’t get to feel his little fingers wrap around hers.

That thought gutted her.

And now… someone else knew she was out there.

And now, her secret wasn’t hers alone.