It felt as if I was clinging to a lifeline. I turned to the person who had taken me away and whispered, "I want to leave the country as soon as possible. I need to completely leave this place behind."
He nodded solemnly, his gaze steady, and reassured me. His words were enough to quiet the storm inside me.
After all, he had walked straight into the Whitmore household and taken me with ease.
With the last remnants of my fading consciousness, I added, "Like how my father disappeared without a trace years ago, I want every part of me to vanish from this country."
7
When I awoke, the world around me had changed.
I was in an unfamiliar room, small but cozy. The air was warm, and the bedside table held a steaming cup of water, evidence that someone had been here recently.
The paint had been washed off my skin, and I found myself dressed in clean clothes, a stark contrast to the mess I had left behind.
As I took in my surroundings, my eyes widened in shock. This room was eerily familiar; it looked just like my childhood bedroom.
Not the one at the Whitmore house, but the one I had before I turned ten, when my parents were still alive, and our family had cherished me like a precious treasure.