She created small routines where none existed—stretching in the morning, counting steps across the length of her cell, replaying memories of Sofia’s voice in her mind so she wouldn’t forget the sound of it. It wasn’t survival in the dramatic sense, but it was survival nonetheless, built out of small, deliberate acts that kept her anchored to something beyond the walls.
The discovery came quietly.
A missed cycle at first, something she attributed to stress, to the way her body had been forced into a rhythm it didn’t recognize. Then another. And another. By the time the prison doctor confirmed it, the reality had already begun to settle in, not as shock exactly, but as a question so large it seemed to eclipse everything else.
How?
It wasn’t a question she asked out loud.
