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The room was simple. A bed with thick blankets, a wardrobe, and a small desk near the window. It was nothing extravagant, yet to me, it felt unreal. The soft mattress beneath my fingers, the warmth in the air—it was the opposite of everything I had known for the past five years.

I stood frozen, unsure of what to do. My body screamed for rest, but my mind wouldn’t let me. A part of me expected this to be a trick, for the man to storm in and tell me this was all a cruel joke, that I belonged back in the camp, back in a cage.

But nothing happened. The only sound was the crackling of the fireplace downstairs and the occasional creak of the house settling.

I peeled off my tattered clothes, stepping into the adjoining washroom. A basin of warm water was already set out. The moment I touched it, I shuddered. Warm water. I hadn’t felt warmth like this in years. At the camp, I had to clean myself with freezing water when I was even given the chance.

As I scrubbed my skin, I watched the dirt swirl away, revealing scars beneath. Each one was a story of survival—marks left by failed escape attempts, punishments, or simple accidents from working in rough conditions. I ran my fingers over them absently.

Once clean, I changed into the clothes left in the wardrobe. They were simple—pants and a long-sleeved shirt, but they were soft and smelled faintly of herbs. A strange comfort.

When I finally gathered the courage to leave the room, I hesitated at the top of the staircase. The man—Nathan, as I had heard the traders call him—was downstairs, sitting in a chair near the fireplace. He wasn’t watching me, but I knew he was aware of my presence.

I slowly descended the stairs. He didn’t speak as I reached the bottom, only gestured toward the table where a plate of food sat.

My stomach clenched at the sight. Real food. Not stale bread or scraps, but an actual meal—stew, still steaming, with a slice of fresh bread.

I hesitated, glancing at him.

“It’s yours,” he said simply.

I sat, taking cautious bites at first, half-expecting it to be snatched away. But nothing happened. The stew was warm, the flavors rich and unfamiliar. I ate slowly, trying to savor it, though my body begged me to devour it all at once.

Nathan watched in silence. His gaze wasn’t harsh or expectant, just… observing.

When I finished, I finally spoke. "Why did you really take me?"

He exhaled, setting his cup of tea down. "At first? Guilt."

I stiffened.

"I bought everyone else. Left you behind." He paused. "But when I saw your face… I knew I couldn’t leave you there."

I clenched my fists under the table. "I didn’t need saving."

"No," he agreed. "But you deserved better than that place."

I stared at him, trying to read his expression. He wasn’t like the traders or the guards. He wasn’t cruel, but that didn’t mean I trusted him.

Still, as I sat there in the quiet warmth of his home, with a full belly and no chains around my wrists, I couldn't deny one thing.

This was better than the camp.

And maybe, just maybe, I could learn how to live again.