What a day.

It’s just like every single other one. The green lawn is perfectly cut, shaved half an inch higher than the usual. Why, though? Why would the gardener do that?

My eyes move to the top of the adjacent house. The bricks are all symmetrically lined up, almost like little red soldiers.

I notice that one is slightly off from the others. Another flaw.

Mr. Abramov is walking his golden retriever, and I can smell Mrs. Skye’s chocolate chip cookies from my room – she always leaves her window open because she bakes every day for her shop, starting as early as six thirty in the morning.

How do I know all this, you say? Well, I’ve had time to listen and observe – a very long time. I’m something like a silent watcher, I suppose.

I crane my head towards the innards of my room, and my glance is caught by the calendar with a huge red circle drawn around a date.

It’s the day I was silenced.

My hand moves to my throat, where my finger tips graze the edge of my ropey scar.

The day I lost my voice.