Chapter Text
The paper crinkles beneath you every time you shift, a sharp, impatient sound that echoes in the too-quiet exam room. Your legs dangle over the edge of the table, too short to reach the step stool, swinging just enough to keep you from feeling completely still. Afternoon sunlight pours through the tall window, turning the polished hardwood floor into a sheet of gold. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, like tiny stars you could almost catch if you tried.
The doctor’s stethoscope still feels cold against your chest even though he took it away minutes ago. You tug the soft cotton gown tighter around yourself and stare at the framed certificates on the wall, pretending to read the long words you don’t understand yet.
Voices filter through the closed door—low, urgent, impossible to ignore. “…Waardenburg Syndrome, confirmed by the genetic panel,” the doctor says, calm and measured, the way adults speak when they’re trying not to scare someone. “The heterochromia and hearing asymmetry are classic markers, but the more pressing concern is the associated congenital heart defect. Her left ventricle shows mild hypoplasia. It’s manageable, but it weakens her overall cardiac reserve.”
Your mother’s voice cracks. “Manageable how? What does this mean for her?”
“Regular monitoring—echocardiograms every six months at minimum. We’ll start her on a low-dose beta-blocker to reduce strain. No competitive sports, no extreme exertion. We need to avoid anything that spikes her heart rate too high.” Your father, quieter but tighter, like he’s holding something in: “She’s seven. She wants to run, climb trees, dance like the other kids…”
“I understand,” the doctor replies gently. “But the risk of arrhythmia or sudden decompensation is real. Better to be cautious now than—” The rest fades as your own heart gives a strange, metallic thump in your ears—too loud, too fast. You press a small hand over your chest, feeling the frantic flutter beneath bone and skin. The words swirl around you: syndrome, defect, monitoring, risk. You don’t know exactly what they all mean together, but you feel the shape of them. Something inside you is broken, or different, and now everyone will treat you like you might break completely.
The door opens eventually. Your mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, though she smiles too brightly when she sees you. Your father’s jaw is set, his hand hovering near your shoulder without quite touching, as if you’re made of spun glass. They thank the doctor, schedule the next appointment, bundle you into your coat. No one explains anything to you directly. You are lifted, carried, guided—never asked. That night, the mansion is hushed. The nanny tucks you in with extra care, smoothing the heavy comforter up to your chin, murmuring that you need your rest now more than ever. The door clicks shut. The hallway light slices across the carpet before disappearing.
You wait.
Ten minutes. Twenty. The grandfather clock downstairs chimes once, a low bronze note that vibrates through the floors.
Then you move.
The sheets are cool against your arms as you slide out of bed. Your bare feet find the thick rug first, then the chilled marble beyond it. Every step is deliberate, toes curling to keep from making noise. The corridor stretches long and shadowed, portraits of great-grandparents watching from their gilded frames. Moonlight spills through arched windows, silvering the banister as you creep toward the grand staircase. Halfway down, you pause. Voices rise from your father’s study—soft enough that they think no one can hear, loud enough that every word lands like a stone in your stomach.
“…Gotham Academy is still the best option,” your mother is saying. “The medical staff on site, the smaller class sizes. We can make it work.”
Your father sighs. “I spoke with Principal Hargrove this afternoon. He’s willing to accommodate, but only if we agree to their terms. No recess sports. A nurse checks her midday. She’ll have to sit out physical education entirely. And if there’s ever an episode—”
“They’ll call us immediately. I know. But it’s safer than public school. She’ll be with children from families like ours—people who understand discretion.”
A pause. Papers rustle.
Your mother again, quieter: “She’s so bright. So curious. I don’t want her to feel… trapped.”
“She won’t,” your father answers, though he doesn’t sound certain. “We’re protecting her. That’s what parents do.”
You crouch there on the shadowed stair, small fingers curled around the carved baluster. The word trapped echoes in your head, fitting perfectly over the ache in your chest. They are drawing lines around your days before you’ve even lived them—where you can run, when you must stop, who will watch to make sure you obey. Your heart thuds again, not from illness this time, but from something fiercer. A spark you don’t have a name for yet. You ease back upstairs, silent as a secret. When you slip beneath the covers again, the sheets no longer feel like safety. They feel like the first bars of a cage someone else is building, plank by plank, around you.
But cages, you decide as you stare at the canopy overhead, have doors.
And doors can be opened.
One day, you’ll find the key yourself.