Mama Rosehearts

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At a glance, Riddle’s room looks elegant and orderly—almost perfect. It’s very much like the Riddle we know. Neat, organized, put-together.

But the more time you spend looking at it, the more it feels curated rather than lived-in. The room does not reflect spontaneity or personal comfort so much as intentional control.

The Bed

The four-poster canopy bed is the centerpiece of the room. Canopy beds traditionally signal status, formality, luxury, and privacy. The curtains create a controlled enclosure. It’s privacy, safety when one is asleep — a time when one is most vulnerable. It also shuts off the bed from the rest of the room — rest is allowed, but only within these boundaries. This could also be a physical representation of how Riddle is somewhat closed off from others—he’s beginning to open up, but that boundary is still there.

Books

Books dominate the room — they’re even in areas meant for relaxation. The books close by his bed suggest that learning is inseparable from his sense of security. Even at rest, his mind isn’t fully allowed to disengage. Riddle’s room is neat, yet the books are arranged somewhat messily when you look closer. Stacked under the lamp, at the foot of the bed, high up on his shelves.

This disorder becomes most visible in Riddle’s Sleepwear vignette, where the books fall on him entirely due to how precariously they’re stacked.

This is where we see cracks in Riddle’s usual presentation.

While Riddle doesn’t tolerate disorder in general, he tolerates this specific type of “disorder” because:

It’s tied to productivity ➜ studying is good

This mess is shows “effort” ➜ exhaustion and the sheer number of books proves he’s working hard

Rest is not sacred, work is ➜ if something has to suffer, it’s his comfort

Someone on TikTok brought up an interesting point regarding Riddle's trust in knowledge and how flimsy that foundation can be.

Do you remember this scene from the manga?

In both this scene and in Riddle's room, books—representing knowledge, tradition, rules, all things Riddle was taught to place his trust in—are used as a foundation. And both times, that foundation has faltered, resulting in hurt. Knowledge and rules alone are not a solid foundation for one to rely on.

Personal Items (or Lack Thereof)

There are little to no signs of hobbies, personal effects, or indulgences. It’s as if his intellectual identity has replaced any space for comfort. Or maybe this is comfort for him. Riddle finds security in rules, structure, and knowledge because they’re familiar. He was taught to fall back on them, to trust them. They protect him from mistakes and chaos—things he was taught not just to avoid, but to fear.

The bit of decor we do see is intertwined with the Heartslabyul aesthetic. For other characters, dorm theming is background—something inherited. For Riddle, it feels as though Heartslabyul isn’t just where he lives, it’s tied with his identity as well. Heartslabyul operates on the same principles Riddle was raised on—rules, obedience, correctness. He is Heartslabyul, shaped by strictness, molded by rules.  He finds security in these things despite the harm they caused. 

One could say Riddle’s identity is inseparable from the role he occupies. There is pride in it, yes, but does Riddle know who he is outside of it?

The White Roses Painted Red

What about the white rose decor specifically?

White roses = innocence and purity. In Alice in Wonderland, the white roses aren’t wrong by nature—they’re unacceptable because they fail to meet an imposed standard. Similar to Riddle, who was not flawed as a child, yet was still reshaped.

Painting a rose red is concealment. The rose doesn’t need to become red, it must appear red. Red is approved. Red is compliant. Red is visible adherence to the rules. Painting the rose replaces its natural identity with enforced correctness. The paint does not change the rose—it suffocates it.

Riddle himself was a victim of this process, being metaphorically painted over in the image of what was “correct”. But paint is only temporary—cracks will form.

Given Alice in Wonderland’s themes of growing up and losing childhood innocence in the process, the white roses—again, which represent innocence and purity, “child-like” qualities—being painted red could also symbolize one coming into the adult world or forced maturity.

In comparison, Trey’s room is also neat and uncluttered, yet still has personal items: hats, a unique rug, etc. Riddle’s room arguably lacks the same type of self-expression.

The Clock

Though in the background, the clock is hard to miss. The size of the clock could reflect just how large of a presence time has in Riddle’s life. We saw this in his childhood, where his days were scheduled down to the minute.

Clocks often represent:

Discipline

Anxiety regarding productivity

Fear of wasting time

Riddle is constantly aware of time passing and the expectations looming over him, even in a space meant for rest. There’s no escape from schedules, rules, or responsibility.

Colors

The dominant colors mirror Heartslabyul’s aesthetic. Outside of that, they suggest:

Red: strong emotion, intensity, anger, passion

Black & White: binary — right vs wrong, correct vs incorrect. Riddle has a black and white way of thinking

Gold: authority, prestige, inherited expectations

There’s almost no soft or cooling color to offset this. 

Visually, the room reinforces a life defined by intense emotions contained within a strict moral framework. Riddle experiences strong feelings but has been taught to regulate, suppress, and moralize them rather than express them freely.

The Rug

The rug has a checkerboard pattern—something that immediately evokes binary logic, black vs white, right vs wrong, correct vs incorrect. 

This is how Riddle was taught to understand the world. Actions were either acceptable or punishable—no nuance. The rug literally places this worldview under his feet, something he is constantly standing on and moving across.

The red exists within the checkerboard—nothing spills outside the grid. Red = strong emotion. Emotion is not allowed to exist freely, but it can be absorbed and weaponized by structure. It’s justified when it enforces “correctness”.

Overall

Taken together, Riddle’s room suggests that:

He equates safety with structure

He cannot rest without rules and said structure present

His selfhood is bound to his role, along with discipline and expectation

The room prioritizes control over exploration. It feels less like the bedroom of Riddle Rosehearts and more like the private quarters of the Housewarden of Heartslabyul. 

Riddle exists here, but he’s still learning how to be more than the boundaries he was taught to never cross.

In Twisted Wonderland’s Lantern of Wishes (Radiant Reenactment) event, the cast of characters may initially seem like a random assortment, aside from Riddle. But the choice of including Deuce, Jack, and Kalim feels a bit deliberate when you look at it through the lens of Tangled, the movie that inspires the event. Like Rapunzel, we could consider each of these boys “trapped” — by expectations, by the past, by fear, or by status — and each must confront what freedom truly means for them. At the same time, their honesty and refusal to blindly follow authority directly challenge Riddle, whose own confinement is rooted in obedience to rules and his mother’s control. When placed beside Rapunzel’s companions in Tangled, their roles and journeys gain a bit more clarity as well. Together, they form a cast whose stories somewhat mirror, complicate, and ultimately push Riddle’s journey forward. 

Peers Who Push

Deuce, Jack, and Kalim all serve as sort of foils to Riddle — not because they’re rulebreakers, but because they recognize when rules are unnecessary and refuse to follow them simply for the sake of following them. More importantly, they’re also willing and unafraid to challenge Riddle directly, speaking with a level of honesty he rarely had from friends in his earlier life. These aren’t people who sugarcoat the truth in order to avoid rocking the boat, like Cater may do, nor people who avoid certain topics out of pity or fear, like Trey did in the past. 

None of them do this out of malice, either — it’s simply who they are. Each has been described at one point as being “honest,” and that quality comes through in their willingness to call Riddle out, to question him, to tell him the truth. In Chapter 1-13 of the event, for instance, when the group is preparing to eat the lunch Jamil brought, Riddle declines on the basis that eating in the library breaks the rules. Kalim immediately questions this decision, — not harshly either, simply questioning whether or not Riddle is hungry — and when Deuce initially sides with Riddle, Jack firmly points out that Deuce doesn’t have to follow Riddle’s lead. 

A small exchange, but one that shows that Riddle’s authority won’t go unexamined.

Their honesty is also evident in Part Three of Riddle’s Night Sky Chiffon (Twilit Fit) vignette, where Riddle cuts his hair with magic. Deuce and Jack bluntly tell him how wrong it looks without hesitation. Most people would typically soften their words to spare feelings, especially with someone like Riddle who seemed so easily angered in the past, but these two prioritize honesty over comfort. For someone like Riddle — who has often had people enabling him or tiptoeing around his behavior — this bluntness is a good thing.

In fact, it may not even be that they prioritize it — they simply can’t help but be honest. Deuce especially is shown to be honest to a fault —which Riddle says explicitly in his Night Sky Chiffon vignette. Deuce and Kalim are two people who speak their mind from the start, whether they intend to or not. They don’t even seem to realize they do it. Jack, on the other hand, simply seems to be unable to compromise his honesty. 

Had other characters filled their roles in the event, it’s possible that Riddle might’ve remained in the library for longer. He doesn’t need enablers — he needs peers who push back, who remind him that rules are not the same as truth. Deuce, Jack, and Kalim sort of embody that challenge, showing Riddle what genuine friendship should look like: not silent agreement, but honesty that refuses to let him remain stagnant.

A Tower of Their Own

All four of the characters featured in Lantern of Wishes are “trapped” by something. These “towers” vary in form, but can also each reflect a piece of Riddle’s own struggle for freedom. 

Riddle’s case is the most direct parallel to Rapunzel. Both are imprisoned by their mothers’ control, both crave freedom, and both wrestle with complicated feelings of guilt and loyalty toward the very people who confined them. Rapunzel’s tower is literal, while Riddle’s is more metaphorical, built on rules and obedience. I plan to go more into detail regarding Riddle and the Lantern of Wishes event at a later date. So for now, this brief explanation will have to do.

Deuce is trapped by his past. Once a delinquent, he works hard to reform himself into an “honor student” his mother would be proud of. Yet, his old instincts sometimes resurface. We see this, for example, in Episode 1-12, when he fights off Savanaclaw students and regrets how easily he resorted to violence. Deuce constantly feels torn between who he was and who he wants to become. His “tower” is the shadow of his past, one that still colors how he views himself even as he strives to be better. 

Kalim is trapped by his status as an heir. Though born into privilege, he constantly shoulders the threat of betrayal — attempts on his life, doubts about his relationships with his own family, even the strain his role places on his relationship with Jamil. His family name is inescapable — it precedes him everywhere. The most tragic part is that Kalim didn’t choose this life, he was simply born into it. Despite his decision to have a sunny outlook on life, he knows that trust and relationships may never be simple for him.

Jack is more difficult to analyze (for me, at least). But, I would say that Jack is trapped by his own independence, or even pride. His lone-wolf (pun intended) mentality makes him seem hesitant to rely on others. Throughout Episode 2, there are multiple instances in which Jack makes it clear that he doesn’t want friends, even as his dream sequence in Episode 7 reveals his longing for closeness and care from his seniors. His Loungewear vignette reinforces this — embarassed by admitting his birthday is coming up, he scolds himself for possibly making Riddle think that he was excited for his own birthday. He goes as far as apologizing for being a “bother” when Riddle wishes him “happy birthday” the next day. It seems as if every outreach in Jack’s direction is met with harsh rejection or deflection.

Now, to players only on the English server, I’d like to note that Jack is more abrasive on the Japanese server. He explicitly states during Episode 2 that he isn’t friends with the player. He indicates multiple times that he wants conversations to end, almost in a rude manner. While he remains standoffish on the English server, the Japanese server shows just how abrasive he can be.

Taken together, the three each could represent facets of Riddle’s own “tower”. Riddle and Deuce are both imprisoned by memories of their pasts—Deuce by his delinquent days, and Riddle by the punishment he received the one time he dared to break the rules. Riddle and Kalim are confined by status—Kalim as an heir, and Riddle as his mother’s son, burdened by the expectations that role entails. Finally, Riddle and Jack are trapped by their independence, each reluctant to open up and form the meaningful connections they both need—and want.

Companion Comparison

If we want to push further, we can see some parallels between Deuce, Kalim, and Jack, and Rapunzel’s companions in Tangled. These connections might be loose but they highlight how each character supports or challenges their own “princess trapped in the tower,” as well as their individual journeys. 

Deuce is Eugene — someone with a rough past trying to change, drawn toward someone (Riddle and Rapunzel respectively) who represents a better path. Both Deuce and Eugene were delinquents in the past: Deuce as a literal troublemaker skipping school and breaking rules, Eugene as a thief. Each is trying to leave that past behind but struggles with self-doubt and relapse. Eugene begins to change because of Rapunzel’s light and optimism, while Deuce strives to reform for his mother’s sake —though Riddle still plays an important role in shaping the kind of student he wants to be. Deuce admires Riddle as the ideal honor student and measures himself against that standard. Both he and Eugene are trapped by their pasts, trying to forge a new identity but sometimes slipping back or questioning if change is even possible.

Kalim is Pascal — the emotional cheerleader, consistent and warm, but underestimated. Pascal is Rapunzel’s constant companion: protective, expressive, and deeply loyal. Kalim fills a similar role for many, including Riddle at times, though their personalities contrast — Kalim is sunshine incarnate, while Riddle embodies discipline and restraint. Kalim’s kindness is unconditional; he is affectionate, forgiving, and rarely confrontational, but his support is no less powerful. While Pascal’s “tower” is less obvious, he is confined to Rapunzel’s world, underestimated for his size and seemingly limited role. Kalim, likewise, is bound by his family name, which dictates how others see and treat him. Both he and Pascal share circumstances with their “princess” figure — Pascal is confined where Rapunzel is, and Kalim is weighed down by family similar to how Riddle is. 

Something interesting I found: while looking on Pascal’s Disney Wiki page (cheating, maybe), there was this line under his “Personality” section:

“However, even though he cheers her [Rapunzel] on, he doesn't know much about the outside world either, and despite being just as excited as Rapunzel to experience it, he was originally just as afraid.”

I wonder if Kalim is sometimes just as afraid as Riddle is. It’s certainly something to think about, isn’t it?

Jack is Maximus — the proud, independent, no-nonsense one who has to learn trust and connection. At first, I hesitated to assign this parallel, worried it was only because Jack didn’t fit the role of Pascal or Eugene. But the similarities become clear on closer inspection. Maximus begins stiff and duty-bound, focused solely on his role of hunting down Eugene, mistrustful of others, and slow to loosen up. Jack is much the same: prideful, blunt, and resistant to closeness, even though he secretly wants it. Both are abrasive in their independence, skeptical of outsiders, yet gradually soften as bonds form. Just as Maximus learns to trust Rapunzel and Eugene, Jack’s arc is about learning the value of friendship and companionship despite his lone-wolf instincts.

No One Leaves the Tower Alone

Many characters in Twisted Wonderland could be described as “trapped” — be it by family, by reputation, by expectations, or by their own flaws. Yet the Lantern of Wishes event chose Deuce, Jack, and Kalim specifically, and that choice sets them apart. Each has a unique dynamic with Riddle that shapes the way he confronts his own “tower” of rules and expectations.

Riddle sees Deuce striving to grow past his delinquent past and admires his determination to live up to a higher standard. In turn, Deuce looks to Riddle as the model honor student, a figure to emulate as he works towards a new identity. Jack shares Riddle’s pride in discipline and his belief in hard work, creating a bond of mutual respect that could make Jack’s honesty hit even harder when he calls Riddle out. Kalim, by contrast, overwhelms Riddle with his pushiness and sincerity at times. Though Riddle sometimes doubts others’ intentions, he finds himself unable to reject Kalim’s persistent kindness, especially when he knows Kalim’s intentions are pure.

A singer’s expression, body language, and emotional state can shape the way each note lands, so at times, I may mention facial expressions or movements that I feel come through in the performance.

0:14-0:31 – Verse 1

Riddle starts off sounding self-assured, almost matter-of-fact — but there’s a slow build of anger beneath the surface. Some syllables sound almost spat out, sharp with irritation, while the rest are kept under control — bits of anger bursting through.

It feels like he’s smiling through his frustration, confident he’s about to be proven right. These lines speak about Riddle cramming the rules inside one's head, forcing the person to "swallow" them down.

0:32–0:48 – Pre-Chorus 1

Here, two distinct tones can be heard. There’s a luring, almost calm quality in the longer, drawn-out notes, especially when he sings about “fools dreaming of escape.” It’s a false sense of security — soft enough to make you lean in.

But in between, bursts of aggression cut through. Louder, faster, shorter notes.

From a child’s perspective — especially one with a strict parent like Mrs. Rosehearts — this unpredictability may mirror the experience of calm suddenly snapping into anger. To a child still learning the world, still learning to recognize patterns, it can feel random and frightening.

There's also the possibility that Riddle's words slow when he feels in control, only to speed up when he feels that control slipping.

0:48–1:20 – Chorus 1

The repeated “FREEDOM IS OBEDIENCE” and “TREPIDATION IS REPOSE” have an almost frantic edge, even more pronounced in the “KNEEL KNEEL KNEEL” section. Riddle sounds fed up — not just wanting, but NEEDING obedience.

The rest of the chorus feels like smug anger, like a queen crushing a rebel under her heel. He’s caught you — now you’ll listen.

His breaths sound almost exhilarated, as if adrenaline is rushing through him. You can almost picture a triumphant smile — the rules have been enforced.

1:28–1:44 – Verse 2

This verse has a tone that we've heard from Riddle: the restrained yet simmering edge he gets when scolding, just before his temper REALLY flares. The lyrics imply you still haven’t learned the rules, so he’s going to make you — one way or another.

The gasps for breath in the last lines might partly be from singing effort, but they also evoke the image of someone so angry they can barely breathe — maybe even on the edge of panic?

1:45–2:01 – Pre-Chorus 2

The opening notes return to the luring, drawn-out style, almost sweetly insisting that losing “childish curiosity” is a good thing. But the tone in the following lines wavers. He doesn’t sound as sure anymore — there’s a hint of resentment, even sadness.

The somewhat panicked breaths return, suggesting pain behind these rules. His voice sounds almost forced out before weakening slightly.

The timing here, when Trey and Che’nya appear, feels telling. It’s like he’s truly afraid he can’t reach them anymore — or they can’t reach him.

2:16-2:24 Bridge

There’s a brief reprieve — his tone almost calms as he gives his orders.

Kneel before him. You’re weak. You’re wrong

If you won’t bend to his will willingly, he’ll make you. You can hear his resolve harden in that moment.

2:25–2:48 – Final Chorus

Back to business. Self-assured, but even harsher. This is no longer a negotiation — it’s a demand. The tone mirrors his fury just before his overblot: “I am absolute. You WILL obey.” His anger is validated in his mind, sharpened and final.

You can hear the effort in his voice — breaths are deeper, maybe shorter than before.

There is no more smile, no more smugness — just anger. I see him wide-eyed, unblinking, his gaze locked on YOU.

Overall Thoughts

Riddle isn’t just enforcing rules — he’s imitating his mother. The lyrics of his song don’t sound like direct quotes from her, but they echo the lessons she (intentionally or not) taught him. Not just through words, but through how she acted, what she rewarded, what she punished, and what she expected without ever needing to say it aloud.

Children learn by watching, by absorbing. And Riddle absorbed everything. The way he speaks in this song — cold, absolute, unrelenting — tells us more about his upbringing than any flashback ever could. It’s the voice of someone who was shaped by fear, who swallowed every rule until he could recite them without thinking. Not because he agreed, but because he had no choice.

There’s anger there in every line. Not just at others who break the rules, but at the rules themselves and at himself, for needing them. You can hear it: the frustration of having to choke down standards that were never made with a child’s heart in mind. But he follows them anyway. He has to.

And if he forces others to follow the same rules, maybe it’ll make the weight on his own shoulders feel lighter. Maybe if everyone obeys, it means he was right to do so too. It means his suffering was not in vain. 

“Open your mouth wider / Politely recite / Those rules, until the very end,  / Follow them, eat them, swallow them”

On the surface, this is about internalizing obedience — swallowing the rules whole, no questions asked. But in Riddle’s case, that metaphor becomes very literal. His mother’s control wasn’t just verbal, it extended to every part of his life, especially his food.

She monitored his diet down to the last calorie. He ate what she decided, when she decided, and nothing more. No sweets, no indulgences. Even the strawberry tarts he longed for weren’t just treats — they were symbols of freedom. Of choice. Of pleasure he wasn’t allowed to have.

So when these lines tell him to "open your mouth wider" and “swallow” the rules, it echoes that same dynamic — obedience disguised as nurture. His mother was likely pleased with him when he finished everything on his plate, but only because it was her plate, her plan, her system. Even food became a vessel for discipline.

It also draws a disturbing parallel between feeding and indoctrination. You don’t just learn the rules — you consume them. They become part of your body, your behavior. And if you want to survive in that household, in that dorm, then you better keep swallowing them down, no matter how bitter it tastes.

“It’s shattered, but the GAVEL never stops sounding.”

This line captures Riddle both before and after his overblot. He’s no longer at home. He lives at NRC now. He doesn’t see his mother every day. Technically, he could break her rules. She wouldn’t know right away, if at all. But he doesn’t. He still follows them.

It’s as if, even in her absence, he can still hear her. Still feel her judgment. The pressure he puts on himself in her name.

Even after his overblot, the metaphor holds. Her rule — “the gavel” — is “shattered,” no longer absolute. But the sound remains. The sentence has already been handed down. He may not be trapped anymore, but he isn’t free either.

The verdict still echoes.

“FREEDOM IS OBEDIENCE”

The one time Riddle disobeyed his mother, he lost nearly all of his freedom, if not all of it. That kind of dynamic is common in strict households: the more you obey, the more freedom you’re given.

Not because they trust you, absolutely not, but because they think they’ve broken you in. You’ve become so conformed to their standards, they believe you couldn’t possibly do anything they wouldn’t like.

So they reward you with freedom. But that “freedom" is also a test. A way to measure how far you'll wander if they loosen the leash. And the moment you step even slightly out of line, the leash tightens. Hard. You get tugged back to prove a point.

Your only chance at freedom is total submission. Obedience becomes the key. But if there's still a leash around your neck, even if it's loose, can you really call that freedom?

Probably not. But you do anyway, because it hurts less than hoping for something else.

“TREPIDATION IS REPOSE”

Trepidation = anxiety, fear, nervous anticipation.

Repose = rest, peace, stillness, a state of calm.

This is the mindset of someone who has lived under such strict conditions that constant anxiety becomes comfort. That hypervigilance becomes home.

When you grow up in a household like Riddle’s, where any misstep, even unintentional, is punished,  your only sense of safety comes from being afraid. The fear keeps you alert. The fear keeps you in line. The fear keeps you from being punished.

So eventually, fear becomes restful. It becomes the baseline. When you’re afraid, you’re doing something right, because it means you haven’t failed yet.

It reflects a trauma-based coping mechanism:

“If I’m always afraid, then I’ll always be ready.”

“If I’m anxious, then I’m safe, because I’m watching for danger.”

“If I’m calm, I’ve missed something.”

It’s a reversal of what peace should be. It shows how Riddle doesn’t know peace as freedom or stillness. He knows it only as control, vigilance, and obedience.

“Your crime is being trampled because you’re weak”

Weakness itself is something punishable, as if simply being crushed by pressure, by others, or by expectations is a moral failure. 

But “trampled” doesn’t mean just being crushed. It can also mean being outperformed, overlooked, or ranked second-best. Failing to ace your exams. Falling short of perfection. Watching your peers surpass you. In an environment like Riddle’s, where achievement equals worth, that kind of failure is humiliating. 

When you grow up with the belief that being perfect is the only way to be safe or loved, then any form of weakness — emotional, academic, social — is seen not as a struggle, but a crime. You didn’t lose because the system failed you. You lost because you weren’t strong enough. You weren’t enough.

So being trampled — by peers, by grades, by expectations — isn’t seen as unfair. It’s evidence. A sign that you’ve failed, that you deserve what happens next.

This could reflect two major angles:

1. How he was raised:

His mother taught him that being anything less than perfect was unacceptable. Mistakes weren’t just errors, they were proof of weakness. And weakness was shameful.

In that worldview, if you're overwhelmed or collapse under pressure, it’s not a cry for help, it’s a fault. A flaw. Another reason to be punished. It’s a failure on your part. 

2. How he views others (pre-overblot):

Before his overblot, Riddle punishes his dormmates harshly. If they disobey, he blames them. If they struggle, he sees it as weakness. 

So when someone fails to follow the rules, even if they didn’t understand them, he sees it as them being too “weak” to succeed, and in his mind, that weakness is a crime.

The line reflects internalized logic that is often born from such abuse. It’s the belief that:

"If I suffer, it’s because I’m weak."

"If I get hurt, it’s my fault."

"If I’m trampled, I deserve it."

It’s victim-blaming turned inward, and then outward. Riddle was taught this about himself, and now projects it onto others.

“Come on, carve the rules onto your body  / So you never forget”

This line feels like an extreme, visceral metaphor for internalized discipline. It reminds me of students writing answers on their arms before a test — not out of defiance, but desperation. A twisted kind of preparation. Except here, it’s not answers, it’s rules. And instead of pen, it’s something far more permanent.

It evokes that moment of collapse, where you're so exhausted from being punished, so desperate to avoid it, that you start to believe it's your fault. If only you'd studied harder. Remembered better. Been better.

The idea of carving the rules into yourself — physically or mentally — becomes a form of self-punishment. It's not unlike self-harm, where the pain becomes a way to regain control, to remember, to repent. A substitution for external punishment. If you hurt yourself first, maybe no one else will have to.

In Riddle’s case, it’s the ultimate internalization of his mother’s control. Her voice no longer needs to yell. The rules are etched into him. He makes himself follow them. Because forgetting has consequences. And now, the punishment comes from within.

“If you still don’t get it, / Allow me to demonstrate / Without having to lift a finger”

This is the Dorm Leader voice — controlled, restrained, and terrifyingly calm. Riddle doesn’t need to shout or act out to assert dominance. He’s trained his dorm so thoroughly that the threat of consequence is enough. The rules, collars, and reputation he’s built do the work for him.

This kind of line says: “You already know the rules. If you break them, I won’t need to intervene. The system will correct you.”

It reflects absolute authority: cold, rehearsed, and institutional.

As with most of Red Heart Rage’s lyrics, this echoes his own upbringing. It’s something his mother could have said — maybe not with those exact words, but through action. She didn’t have to constantly scold him because the fear of punishment was enough. She trained him so thoroughly that he punished himself for even thinking of disobedience.

So when Riddle says this, it’s both:

A show of his own internalized power — he's become what he feared.

A glimpse of the control he can’t escape.

It's him reenacting the kind of psychological conditioning that shaped him: “You should already know. If you don't, you'll suffer the consequences — and it won't even be my doing.”

The line reveals just how deep the conditioning runs. Riddle has learned that real power doesn’t require violence, it requires structure. Systems. Anticipated punishment. And that’s how he now wields his authority: efficiently, impersonally, and with zero margin for error.

And yet, it’s tragic. Because this line also signals that he hasn’t escaped. He’s repeating the pattern.

“Once a child's wonder is eaten away, / It doesn't matter how much you try / Words will never reach them.”

This line is about what happens when a child, once open and imaginative, is broken down by control, fear, and harsh expectations.

Wonder represents innocence, openness, the ability to dream, to trust, to hope. Once that’s "eaten away" — by strict parenting, abuse, pressure to perform — what’s left is a shell. A child who doesn’t listen, not out of defiance, but because they’ve already stopped believing words can mean anything other than commands or punishment.

So by the time you try to reach them with kindness, reason, or comfort, it’s too late. They can’t hear you.

Trey and Che’nya are two of the only people in Riddle’s life who did try to reach him. Trey watched Riddle internalize his mother’s rules and become increasingly isolated. He cared, but didn’t know how to help.

Trey and Che’nya represent what Riddle used to be — or could’ve been. Che’nya especially embodies that chaotic curiosity, the freedom to laugh, explore, break rules just for the fun of it, to just be. Trey is calmer, but still gentle, kind, and emotionally open. They’re both people who tried to connect with Riddle, to talk to him, to reach him. And they did — for a while. But they were quickly removed from Riddle’s life, Riddle no longer having anyone to reach for him as they did.

And Trey, at least, tried later on.

But by then, Riddle’s “wonder” had already been eaten away. He had been reshaped into someone who didn’t trust spontaneity, didn’t respond to warmth, didn’t understand why anyone would break the rules. He was no longer the “Riddle” that Trey knew from years ago.

So their words couldn’t reach him, not because they didn’t care, but because the damage had already been done.

This line may not just be about Riddle himself: it could reflect his frustration toward others.

Riddle has internalized the idea that rules are love. That control equals care. So when he speaks, when he corrects someone or scolds them, it isn’t just about dominance. In his mind, he’s trying to help.

But it never lands the way he wants. Trey looks at him with that gentle smile, like he’s tolerating a tantrum. His dormmates whisper behind his back. No one listens the way he needs them to. They don’t seem to understand what he's trying to say underneath all the severity: that he's trying his best, that this is how he learned to survive, that this is what’s best for them. That they need the rules lest their freedom be crushed the same way his was.

The line becomes even more devastating when you consider that wonder doesn’t just mean joy or innocence — it also means curiosity. The desire to explore, to ask “why?”, to push boundaries, to be alive in the world. And curiosity, in Riddle’s world, is dangerous. It’s punished. It’s treated as defiance.

A few people have compared this line to “The Walrus and the Carpenter” story in “Alice in Wonderland”, which is fitting. In the poem, the little clams are curious. They come to the shore, eager, innocent, trusting — and they’re eaten for it. Their wonder is quite literally consumed. And that’s what happens to children in strict, authoritarian households. Curiosity isn’t nurtured, it’s devoured.

Riddle learned early on that curiosity didn’t make things better, it made things worse. He let his curiosity win once, and he was punished. So he stopped. He buried that wonder. He stopped being curious and started being correct. And once that transformation is complete, it’s incredibly hard, sometimes impossible, for words to reach someone like that. Not because they’re cold or uncaring, but because they’ve been taught that thinking, feeling, wondering, isn’t safe.

“Even ignorance of what’s ‘right’ is a crime.”

In strict or abusive households, children are often punished not just for disobedience, but for not already knowing what counts as disobedience.

A child isn’t born knowing what’s allowed. That understanding comes from being taught, from guidance, from safe correction. But in some homes, you only learn by doing something “wrong” and being punished for it. It’s like being expected to avoid a hot stove without ever being told it’s dangerous. And when you inevitably touch it, you’re not warned — you’re blamed.

In that kind of environment, ignorance itself becomes punishable. You’re expected to read invisible rules, anticipate every possible failure, and somehow always already know what not to do. For kids like Riddle, that’s the root of the fear: the sense that no matter how hard you try, you might still be wrong. And that being wrong is a crime in itself.

This applies to Riddle’s dorm members too. Imagine being a freshman, just arriving at NRC, and expected to memorize 810 obscure rules, many of which have little bearing on daily life. Riddle was already punishing students within the first week of school. But how could they have known what was right or wrong?

They didn’t know they’d be sorted into Heartslabyul. They didn’t know they were expected to know these rules in advance. They weren’t disobedient — they were just uninformed.

“Is mancala a thing in Twisted Wonderland?”

The question is so offhand that, for a fleeting second, Riddle almost forgets where they are. 

Almost.

Biv sits cross-legged in the patchy sand, squinting at the marbles in their hand like they’re trying to make sense of them. They shift a few between their fingers, letting them clink together softly. 

The game room they’re in is large and boxy — just like the ones before — though this one is sectioned off by thick brick walls that are just taller than a person. The lights above cast a glow eerily similar to sunlight, and beyond the wall’s opening, a maze of other sectioned off areas can be seen.

A guard stands silently in the corner, face hidden behind that expressionless, black mask marked by a white triangle. He hasn’t moved once. But Riddle can feel his presence like a hook between his shoulder blades. 

On the far side of the room, high on the wall, a large digital clock ticks down from 30:00, seconds disappearing in rhythmic silence. Riddle has been watching it without meaning to, as if staring might slow it down.

The numbers stitched onto their jackets are stark against the green fabric — 113 for Riddle, 037 for Biv. 

Riddle blinks, gaze finally drifting back to Biv. “It is,” he replies slowly. “Though we’d need more marbles to play properly.”

“How many does it need again?”

“Forty-eight.”

Biv hums. “Well, looks like we’re short by… a lot. We’ve got twenty,” They shrug, leaning forward. “Guess it’s abridged mancala, then.”

Before Riddle can comment further, Biv starts tracing shallow circles into the sand with their finger, arranging six uneven wells on either side. They pause every now and then to adjust the spacing, sometimes filling in an entire well and starting over.

“...You chose a game you don’t know how to play, didn’t you?” The idea causes a pit to form in Riddle’s stomach.

“Okay, so, I wouldn’t say that I’m completely clueless on how to play, but…yeah,” Biv admits. “I had a board when I was a kid, a nice wooden one with shiny stones in it. It was probably one of the prettiest things I owned, actually.”

Biv pauses, reassessing the board they’ve made in the sand. “I mean, this isn’t the first time I winged something important.” With a weak smile, they look up at Riddle. “Besides, I figured you’d help me. You’re good at making sense of things.”

Before Biv can move again, Riddle kneels beside them, brushing sand aside with the tips of his fingers to help refine the board layout. “Each player gets six wells and a store. You distribute four stones per well. The goal is to collect more in your store than your opponent.”

Biv’s grin widens. “Look at you. Of course you know the rules.”

“I’ve read about it,” Riddle says. “ Though I haven’t played.”

“Well, I have. Badly. I used to just guess. I never had anyone explain it to me.”

Biv picks up another marble, tossing it into one of the sand-drawn circles with a gentle clack. 

“My mom didn’t really…do games. If I asked, she’d just hand me something to study or give me a list of chores to do. So I gave up on asking. I’d just hide away and play against myself whenever I got the chance.”

They end up editing the game’s layout at Riddle’s insistence; five wells on each side instead of six, two marbles in each well. They set the marbles in slowly, each drop a soft thud against the sand.

Riddle watches Biv for a moment as they place in the final marbles. Then he says, quietly, “This would be more relaxing if the outcome weren’t fatal.”

“Yeah,” Biv murmurs. “Kind of a buzzkill.”

Somewhere to their left, a muffled conversation turns to pleading. Somewhere to the right, someone sniffs and mutters what sounds like a prayer. Sand shifts, one short burst of laughter is abruptly cut off. 

Riddle tries to tune out the noise.

So far, no gunshots. Just decisions being made. Games being chosen. 

──────────────

The timer has already dipped below 26 minutes. Riddle glances at it, jaw tightening, then forces his eyes back to the board. 

The presence of the guard doesn’t let Riddle forget: this is not a game that ends in ties.

Biv picks up two marbles, then reaches out to drop the first one into a well. They hesitate.

“Wait, do I go clockwise?”

“Here,” Riddle says, gently redirecting their hand. “Start from your far left well, and drop one stone into each following it — your side first, then mine, but skip my store.”

Biv follows the guidance, their movements still slow and uncertain. “Like I said, I used to just guess. No one ever explained it to me.”

“You’re not doing too badly now.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re helping me,” Biv mutters, and drops the second marble in a panic when it slips from their hand.

They both watch it bounce into Riddle’s store.

“Shit. Sorry, Riddle.”

Riddle sighs, but he pushes it back towards Biv’s side without a word.

Biv snorts. “So generous.”

“You’re lucky I’m your opponent.”

“Lucky’s not the word I’d use, but sure.”

They keep playing, slow and awkward. Riddle moves with quiet precision, fingers sure and methodical. Biv follows his lead, trying to mirror his rhythm but dropping marbles in the wrong pits, sometimes skipping a well or forgetting to pick up more marbles. 

Riddle doesn’t scold, he just corrects gently. Slides a marble back into their hand when they drop it. Reaching over to nudge one of their wells back into shape after they shifted it with their sleeve.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Riddle says suddenly.

“Neither were you,” Biv replies. “Thought I was seeing things when I saw you during Red Light, Green Light.”

They glance up at each other for a moment, before looking back at the makeshift board in the sand.

“I joined,” Biv starts, picking up a couple of marbles and setting them into motion. “Because Grim needs someone to take care of him. And because…you told me you wanted to study law.”

Riddle stiffens. His hand stills above his side of the board. 

“You said you were scared your mother wouldn’t support you if you didn’t follow in her footsteps,” Biv continues. “So I figured…maybe I could win. Get enough money so you wouldn’t have to ask her for anything. So you could be free.”

Riddle doesn’t respond. He takes his turn, moving slower now, not looking at Biv.

“I know. It was dumb.” Biv adds, half-smiling. “But I didn’t know things would turn deadly. And by that time…well, I was already kinda locked in.”

After a moment, Riddle finally replies, “I joined for myself. Not to cut ties with her, but to stop relying on her.”

He exhales quietly, like he’s deflating.

“I thought, foolishly, that if I could win a few children’s games, I’d be free.”

They both stare at the board. The marbles, the faintly glowing timer hovering above it all. The silence, still untouched by gunfire. Everyone else is still playing. Still hoping.

“Sounds like we’re both here for you, then,” Biv says softly, letting out a weak chuckle. “We really need to coordinate better.”

──────────────

They keep playing. Kind of. 

The marbles clink against each other, thudding softly against the sand as turns pass between them. Some moves are deliberate, Most are sloppy — neither of the pair paying particular attention anymore. 

Riddle gently reaches over once to nudge a stray marble back into a well. Biv thanks him with a distracted smile. 

The timer on the wall blinks down to 24:17.

The room still feels unnervingly quiet, but something’s changed. From behind the brick walls — somewhere on the far end of the room — a pop echoes. 

A gunshot.

Riddle’s hand still. Biv doesn’t react at first, eyes fixed on the board, but their fingers clench tighter around the next marble. 

A second shot follows. Then a third, farther away. 

Someone begins to wail. Whether they’re a winner or a soon-to-be loser, Riddle can’t tell. 

Biv drops a marble.

It bounces into their store, clattering against another marble. The sound makes Biv flinch.

Riddle watches them silently. Their shoulders are more hunched now, the slight tremor in their hands no longer subtle.

“You’re shaking,” Riddle says quietly. It’s more of an observation than an accusation; rarely has Riddle seen Biv shaken.

Biv lets out a breath, a poor attempt at laughter. “Just cold. These jackets suck.”

But Riddle remembers clearly: not fifteen minutes ago, before the game began, Biv had been tugging at the sleeves of that very same jacket, complaining that it was too hot in the room. Even now, they look flushed. 

He doesn’t argue. Just watches. 

They pick up another marble and try again — dropping it into a well, but it bounces and rolls over towards Riddle.

Riddle picks it up, passing it back silently.

“Thanks.” Biv doesn’t meet his eyes. They smile again, but it’s too practiced now.

Riddle starts his turn, methodically placing marbles down — one per well, clinking softly. When he finishes, he leans back on his hands and looks up at Biv more closely.

“You don’t need to pretend with me. I thought we were past that.”

Biv still doesn’t spare Riddle a glance, too focused on drawing shapes in the sand next to the board. “What makes you think I’m pretending?” 

“The way you’re talking. Smiling. Trying to fill the silence.” Riddle glances up towards the timer. 20:56. 

Biv exhales sharply through their nose. “You caught me.”

Another shot rings out, this one closer.

They both fall quiet again, though this silence feels bigger. Sharper. Riddle finds himself watching Biv’s hands — how they curl around a marble, then loosen again, like it’s something grounding in the chaos.

──────────────

“I’ve been thinking,” Biv says, absentmindedly. “About how love works.”

Riddle frowns at them. “Now?”

“Weird timing, I know. But sitting across from someone you care about while knowing one of you is gonna die kinda brings the topic to mind.”

Their finger moves slowly through the sand again, shaping what looks like a crooked little cat. Riddle suspects it’s meant to be Grim — though it’s hard to tell through the shaking.

“I think,” they begin slowly “for me, love has always meant sacrifice. I trade pieces of myself in hopes of keeping people around. Give and give until there’s nothing left.”

Riddle’s stomach turns.

Biv glances sideways at him. “I don’t mean that in a pity way. It’s just how I grew up. If I wanted love, I had to be useful. Prove myself. I had to offer something first in order to matter to someone.”

“That’s not love,” Riddle says, more sharply than intended.

“Maybe not for you,” Biv replies with a shrug. “But that’s how I learned it. I gave, and people stayed. They were happy. Sometimes. When they left, or grew unhappy, I just figured I didn’t give enough yet.”

Another marble drops into one of Biv’s wells, but their hand lingers over it too long. 

“You shouldn’t have to disappear just to be loved,” Riddle murmurs.

Biv lets out a soft laugh, giving Riddle a small smile.

“I don’t disappear,” they say. “That’s the problem. I stay.”

Riddle glances up at them, confused.

“I’m the kind of person who waits,” Biv continues. “I keep showing up, even when no one asks me to. Even when it hurts. I just… let people take what they need. And I stay, hoping that’ll be enough.”

The game between them sits untouched for a moment, Biv’s hands focused on their rudimentary work of art, while Riddle’s eyes are trained on them.

“That’s what I did after your overblot.” They add, voice a bit quieter now. “I didn’t know what to say to you, or how to make things better. I still don’t, most of the time. But I kept checking in. Sitting nearby, even when you didn’t wanna talk. I just…showed up. Because you needed someone who would.”

Riddle blinks. The air in the room feels heavier now.

“But this —” Biv shifts slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “This isn’t about obligation.”

“I didn’t pair with you because I was planning to throw my life away, or because I felt I had to,” they say. “I picked you because I trust you. Because I care about you. And because if it had been a team game, I would’ve protected you with no hesitation.”

They paused, mouth open as they try to find the words.

“And if it wasn’t,” they add, “I still wanted it to be me.”

Riddle feels something sour rise in his throat. His chest tightens, breath catching just slightly.

“You suspected it was a one-on-one game?”

“Yeah,” Biv finally admits. “The second they said ‘pair up’. It just…made too much sense. Sounded like an easy way to cut the player count in half. I figured maybe I was being paranoid, but turns out I was right, unfortunately.”

Riddle swallows. The marbles feel heavy in his hands. His eyes shift to the timer: 15:04. “Then why not avoid me? Why not pair with someone else, someone you’d be willing to fight fairly? We both could have won.”

“Because if it came down to this…” Biv trails off, gaze steady now as they watch the timer tick down. “I didn’t want anyone to have the chance to hurt you. I wanted to make sure you win this game.”

Riddle considers urging Biv to continue playing, but he can see it in their eyes — the game’s already over to them.

“I’ve given a lot of myself away over the years because I felt I had to,” Biv says, their voice lower. “But you… Riddle, you never made it feel like something I had to do. I didn’t have to earn my place with you. I just had to show up in the way I wished someone had shown up for me.”

They pause, Riddle’s throat tightens. The silence between them grows heavier.

“That’s why this is different,” Biv says. “This isn’t a reflex. It’s not desperation. It’s one of the few times in my life where I’ve wanted to give something. Because it’s you.”

Biv shifts again, eyes flicking between the guard still standing in the corner up to the timer on the wall, before settling back on Riddle.

“I know that you think this is wrong,” Biv says, smiling faintly. “But for me? Loving you like this — like you’re my own kid — is one of the clearest things I’ve ever felt.”

The timer ticks down: 12:41.

──────────────

Riddle stares at the board, but the shapes blur. His fingers dig into the sand. Something inside him is unraveling — partly with panic, but mainly with grief.

“You shouldn’t give me your life so easily,” he whispers.

“I know,” Biv replies, voice too calm for the subject matter. “But I want to.”

The marbles lie scattered, some half-buried in the sand. The shallow wells have collapsed in places, their lines blurred.

Biv continues drawing, tracing slow spirals and flower shapes in the sand with one fingertip. Their eyes avoid the board completely now. 

Riddle, on the other hand, is staring. Not at the game. At Biv.

“If you wanna talk facts, we can,” Biv shrugs again, looking up from their artwork to gauge Riddle’s reaction. “You’re younger than me. You’ve got more time. More years left to–”

“I don’t care,” Riddle cuts in.

Biv pauses, taken aback for a moment before trying again.

“Okay, the age argument doesn’t work for you,” They try to keep their tone light, but are clearly faltering. “Well. You actually belong in Twisted Wonderland. You’re from this world, and I’m not. I was dropped here for no reason, and–”

“You matter just as much as I do.”

“That’s not–”

“Stop trying to make this about who deserves to live,” Riddle snaps, and his voice cracks under the weight of it. “It’s not a math equation. You can’t assign yourself a lower value because of how old you are or where you’re from.”

Biv presses their palm flat into the sand. The shape beneath it collapses, the grains sticking to their skin.

“I’m not saying I’m disposable,” they murmur. “I’m saying I’m okay being the one who goes.” 

“Well I’m not,” Riddle fires back, eyes burning. “I’m not okay with that.”

Biv lets out a slow breath. “We don’t get the luxury of being okay with any of this, Riddle.”

“But we don’t have to accept it, either.”

Riddle surges to his feet. Paces a tight, agitated circle. His sneakers crunch lightly over the sand. 

“There has to be another way. What if we share the marbles? We could say we tied. Maybe if we stall long enough–”

“Riddle,” Biv interrupts, sharp enough to stop him mid-sentence.

He turns — Biv is already looking at him.

They’re not drawing in the sand anymore. They’ve gone still, hands resting lightly on their knees, and they’ve got that look on their face — the look. The one they only use when they’re being completely, painfully serious. 

“I know I’m usually the one encouraging you to bend the rules,” Biv says quietly. “To loosen up and all. But just this once… I need you to follow them.”

Riddle opens his mouth to argue again, but Biv is already standing. 

They step closer and rest a hand gently on his shoulder, steadying him just enough to remind him they’re still here. For now, at least.

“Please,” they say, voice softer now. “Don’t try to cheat this one.”

Riddle stares at them, throat tight. The closeness feels worse. Kinder. It makes everything ache more. 

“And if it turns out there was a way?” he finally says.

Biv pauses.

“Then I’ll look real stupid,” they say, with a dry smile. “Dramatic, even.”

Riddle lets out a choked breath — something between a laugh and a sob.

He steps in, resting his head lightly against their upper arm. Biv wraps one arm around him — not quite a full embrace, but close enough, their hand settling gently on his back.

“You’ll make a great lawyer, you know,” Biv says softly, a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. “You never know when to stop arguing.”

“I’m trying to save your life.”

“I know,” they whisper. “And I love you for that.”

──────────────

Riddle’s eyes dart up to the timer, heart beating faster: 08:23.

It isn’t just ticking down anymore — it’s pressing in, heavy and certain. Riddle feels it in his chest, in his breath, in the way Biv still hasn’t looked away.

“I don’t want this,” Riddle whispers.

“I know,” Biv says.

“We still have time.”

“I know.”

Riddle’s fists tighten at his sides. “Then why are you acting like it’s already over?”

“Because I’ve already decided.”

They say it gently, with the kind of finality that feels too calm. 

“I can’t just let you–” he starts.

“You’re not letting me,” Biv interrupts. “I don’t need your permission. You don’t have to agree. You just have to live.”

Riddle’s vision begins to blur at the edges. 

“I’m not worth this.”

Biv gives him a look then — firm, tired, but warm. The kind of look that always makes Riddle feel like a small child again, but not in a condescending way.

“You’re just a kid, Riddle.”

“I’m not–”

“I know you hate hearing that,” Biv stops Riddle from continuing. “But you are, at least to me. You’re seventeen. You’re barely getting to be a person. You’re still at the age where you’re figuring everything out.”

Biv gently squeezes his shoulder and then lets go. Their expression doesn’t waver as they crouch to gather the marbles from the ground between them.

“I know who you are as a person. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t known you forever. I don’t need to be related to you by blood to care this much.”

One by one, they scoop the glass pieces into their hands, before dumping all twenty into one of the cloth pouches they’d been given at the start. 

“You’re brave. Loyal. Even more stubborn than me. And, even after everything you’ve been through, you still believe in doing the right thing.”

When they finally rise again, they press the weighted pouch into Riddle’s hands, waiting for his fingers to close around it.

“You’re my kid,” Biv says, voice soft but unwavering. “Maybe not in the way the world defines it. But I chose you. And I’d choose you again in my next life.”

Riddle’s breath hitches. His hands won’t close around the bag.

“You won,” Biv says, smiling. “No cheating. No tricks. I didn’t even throw the game. I was just bad at it.”

“Stop it–” Riddle’s voice cracks — he can’t take it. “I didn’t earn this. I didn’t do anything to deserve–”

“You don’t earn love, Riddle,” Biv says. “I know I’ve spent most of my life believing it is. But you… I don’t want you thinking like that. Not you. Love shouldn’t be a transaction.”

They step closer, wrapping their arms around Riddle in one of those rare hugs the two of them share. 

“Don’t waste this gift trying to justify why you got it.”

That shuts him up, surprisingly. Not because he accepts it, but because he can’t think around the hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Biv adds. “I know this is gonna leave a scar. But I gotta be selfish for once. I’d rather it be this kind of pain than the kind I’d have to live with if it were you.”

Riddle blinks hard. His hands finally squeeze around the bag containing the marbles. His knuckles ache from how tightly he’s holding it.

“You’re gonna graduate someday,” Biv starts, their voice barely above a whisper. “Wear those dumb ceremonial robes again. And when you graduate, and if you get married or do any other big thing — just save me a seat, okay?”

Riddle tries to laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

“And pick a decent picture of me if you wanna use one to hold my spot,” Biv adds. “Ask Cater. I hate most of the ones I’ve taken.”

“Stop saying things like this is a joke,” Riddle snaps, but it’s hollow. Hurt.

“It’s not a joke. It’s just… the only way I know how to leave something behind without making it hurt worse.”

The timer blinks: 06:11.

“One more thing,” Biv adds softly, voice almost an afterthought. “Grim doesn’t have anyone else.”

Riddle blinks, caught off guard by the shift.

“He’s rough around the edges, but he’s good, I swear,,” they continue. “And he’s going to be alone after this. I’ve got a little money stashed away —  under a loose floorboard in the Ramshackle kitchen, near the counter by the sink. It’s not much, but it should help you take care of him for a while.”

They hesitate, their smile faltering. “I’m sorry to dump that on you. I know it’s a lot. But I trust you more than anyone.”

Their fingers give a gentle squeeze to Riddle’s shoulder. “Take care of him, yeah?”

Riddle nods once, tightly — his throat too full for words. “I will,” he manages. “I promise.”

Footsteps.

The guard in the corner starts moving — slow, deliberate steps towards them. 

Biv hears it. They straighten, pulling away from Riddle.

Riddle panics. “Wait–please–!”

He tries to step forward, but another guard is already at his side. Riddle almost fights, before Biv nudges him carefully, away from them.

“You’ll be okay, Riddle,” They say. “Not perfect. But okay is good enough.”

Riddle doesn’t even fight when the guard grabs his shoulder, steering him towards the exit — he’s frozen, tears finally slipping free.

“I love you,” Biv says, clear and full.

Riddle swallows hard, unable to say it back — but his grip on the marble bag tightens.

Biv gives a small wave, appearing to swallow down their own tears and the guard next to them raises his gun.

The sound barely reaches him.

The gun fires. The voice says, “Player 037 eliminated.”

But Riddle keeps expecting Biv to laugh. To say “just kidding.” To call him dramatic. 

He looks back.

There’s no one there.

The gate clicked open under Riddle’s hand like it had been waiting for him.

There was no squeak, not even a suggestion of one. The hinges had been oiled to silence for as long as he could remember. 

The house itself hadn’t changed. Of course it hadn’t. The garden had been pruned to rigid symmetry; the hedges out front remained squared off like models in a catalog, not one leaf out of place. Everything stood as motionless as the day he left, as if the entire property had been frozen in time.

The front door opened before he could knock. It always did. 

Not a single creak. Not a groan. Even the floorboards stayed quiet, like they knew better than to draw attention to themselves. The carpet had been vacuumed into stiff, unwavering lines. The thermostat, he was sure, still read exactly 72 degrees Fahrenheit — the ideal temperature for focus.

His suitcase whispered across the entryway tiles as he stepped inside. Not a sound beyond that. 

His mother didn’t greet him. Didn’t step aside to let him in, or even glance his way. Didn’t say "Welcome back", didn’t offer to take his coat, or help him unpack. She simply turned her back to him and walked away, her voice already halfway down the hall.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she said. “Your father will not be joining us.”

Of course he wouldn’t be. 

Riddle could count the number of dinners spent with his father on one hand. At this point in his life, his mother could bring in any other dark-haired man of average height and claim it was his father, and Riddle might just believe her. 

She turned toward the stairs. “I’ve left review materials in your room. You’ll use the time to get ahead. There’s no reason your grades should slip simply because the calendar has.”

She didn’t ask how he’d been. She didn’t ask anything at all. 

Riddle hadn’t spoken since stepping through the door, and it was already too late to start. He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was already halfway up the steps.

He had rehearsed the conversation a dozen times on his way here — how to bring it up gently, how to explain that he needed more than just coursework and curated expectations. That he nearly died. That what happened to him hadn’t been about weakness or rebellion, but about pressure. Loneliness. Fear.

“Yes, Mother,” was all he could muster. His confidence, bolstered by hours of practiced words, shriveled. 

So much for that conversation. 

Riddle followed behind his mother, dragging his suitcase by the handle. The wheels barely made a sound against the floor. Not because he was careful — though he was — but because the flooring was so well maintained. Too well. The rugs never bunched. The air was too still. He could feel himself being swallowed by it. 

His mother stopped at the top of the stairs, glancing over her shoulder just barely. “Your bed is out of alignment,” she said. “It’s an inch farther from the wall than it should be. You’ll move it back before you sleep tonight.”

Riddle blinked. “I don’t recall–”

But her eyes had already moved on. Not accusatory. Just noting the fact.

Maybe he had moved it months ago, during the last school holiday. Maybe it had shifted. It didn’t matter. 

“Yes, Mother.”

──────────────

His room was exactly as he remembered it, which somehow made it worse. 

The bed was made — tucked tight, the pillows arranged like a display. The shelves were untouched, yet free of dust. 

His desk had already been laid out: fresh notes, up-to-date prep books, two mechanical pencils with backup leads. At the center of the desk sat a folder labeled “Winter Break Revision Plan”. Below it, clipped together with unsettling precision, were supplemental study packers, handwriting drills, and a mock exam dated the second to last day of winter break.

It was clean. Controlled. Suffocating.

Riddle placed his suitcase beside the closet, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the folder across the room for a long time.

He didn’t open it. 

Instead, he scanned the room, looking for something — anything — that might have changed. Maybe a forgotten trinket, a misplaced book, some wrinkle in the otherwise flawless order. But there was nothing. Not even the faintest trace that someone lived here.

The air smelled faintly of lavender, his mother’s preferred scent for “calm and focus.” It clung to the curtains, the linens, even the pages of the revision materials. The smell used to lull him into obedience. Now, it made his throat tighten.

His suitcase, the only thing out of place, looked almost offensive against the perfection of the room. He wondered how long it would take for someone to “tidy it away” if he left it there.

He reached for the hem of his uniform sleeve and clenched it between his fingers. She hadn’t asked how his term had gone. Hadn’t looked him in the eye when she greeted him. Not even a full minute passed before she told him to study.

Riddle blinked hard and looked away from the folder.

He wasn’t sure whether he was angry or just tired. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

──────────────

Dinner was served exactly one hour after Riddle arrived. 

Not a minute late. Not a second early.

His mother’s cooking, as always, was meticulous. Light vegetable broth, a measured portion of grilled fish, steamed greens, and half a cup of brown rice. The plate looked more like a diagram than a meal — something out of a nutritional pamphlet. 

The salt shaker remained in the cabinet. There was no need for seasoning — his mother always seasoned things exactly as they should be. 

“The fish is high in Omega-3s,” his mother said as she sat across from him. “The greens are rich in folate. I’ve adjusted the rice portion to 105 grams — any more would be unnecessary for your weight bracket. Altogether, this brings you just under 650 calories. With your breakfast and the snack I’ve prepared for later, you’ll fall neatly within the recommended 2,400 for a male your age.”

She unfolded her napkin, placing it onto her lap. “Your metabolism will stabilize better if you do not exceed that.”

Riddle gave a tight nod. He didn’t remember asking for the details. 

They ate in silence after that. The kind that wasn’t strained, only expected. Riddle’s fork moved automatically, his eyes downcast. He waited for the right moment to speak — though, if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure such a moment existed. Still, he tried. 

“I was thinking,” he began carefully, watching the lines of steam curl up from his bowl. “That during the break, I might go visit… my friends. They said I was welcome to see them any day.”

His mother didn’t look up. She cut neatly into the fish, separating it into even pieces. 

“That would be a waste of your time,” she said. “You have exams next term. The break is an opportunity to study without distractions.”

“I know, but–”

“I also expect you to have reviewed the material I left in your room.” She took a delicate sip from her glass. “There’s no excuse for you to fall behind when the resources are right in front of you.”

Riddle hesitated. “I haven’t had time to–”

“You’ve had an hour.”

He swallowed, though not from the food. “Yes. I’ve looked through it,” he lied.

His mother nodded, satisfied. “Good. I thought the section on magical law reform might interest you. Since you’ve brought up the idea of studying law.”

The way she said it — the idea — made it sound like he’d confessed to a hobby. Something temporary. A phase.

“I included two case studies and a theoretical ethics worksheet,” she went on. “You’ll have time to review them between your potion theory reviews and anatomical labeling drills. Understanding legal precedent is useful, especially when you’ll eventually need to apply for research clearances. A proper medical education requires familiarity with bureaucratic procedure.”

Riddle stared at his plate. 

“I… I’m not interested in law only as a supplement,” he quietly said. “I meant as a career.”

She didn’t respond at first. Just another soft clink of her glass returning to the table.

“There is no need to make those kinds of decisions now,” she said at last. “And certainly not based on something abstract. Law is academic, yes, but it lacks practical grounding. Medicine magic is stable. Respected.”

That was the end of it. 

No conversation. No debate. Just another decision already made for him, with his preferences slotted in like electives. 

Riddle set his fork down, carefully aligning it with the edge of his plate. He hand shook.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said “About everything.”

His mother said nothing. Just waited. That unreadable stillness behind her eyes.

“I understand my schedule is important. I know you only want what’s best. But… I’ve begun to wonder if it might help to not focus so tightly on academics. At least not during the entire break.”

Still no interruption. But it wasn’t just silence — it was an assessment.

“I think–” his throat tightened slightly as he struggled to swallow. “I think part of what led to my overblot was that everything was too rigid. I’ve been trying to manage things better since then. I’d like to continue to do so.”

A pause. For a second, he almost thought his mother was considering it.

Then: 

“I’d rather you not bring up that incident again.”

Her voice was cool. Not sharp. No, that would have implied emotion.

“We have moved past it. There’s no value in bringing up something so… unfortunate. What matters is that it will not happen again.”

“It wasn’t just unfortunate–”

“You’re not overblotting now, are you?”

“No, but–”

“Then let’s not make excuses.”

Her voice didn’t rise. She didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. She didn’t need to.

Riddle sat in silence after that. The clink of her knife against the plate was deafening in the stillness. 

He wasn’t dismissed. Not immediately. 

He sat with his back straight, plate clean, glass of water untouched as he waited for her to indicate that dinner was finished. That he could stand. That he could breathe. 

When she did finally speak, it was only to say: “You’ll wake at eight tomorrow. I’ve set the schedule accordingly.”

And that was it.

He stood, thanked her for the meal, and returned to his room. 

──────────────

His room greeted him with the same sterile precision it had earlier, as though the whole house hadn’t just borne witness to his humiliation. 

Riddle closed the door behind him with care, setting the latch into place like it might trigger a trap if handled too quickly. He didn’t sigh — he wouldn’t give the room that much — but he let his shoulders fall a fraction as he stepped out of his shoes and sat down at the desk.

The folder waited for him, still unopened. The label, “Winter Break Revision Plan,” stared back at him, almost tauntingly. 

He stared at it for a long time. 

He could open it. He could. He should. If he started now, he could get through the law packet and half of the potion review before bed. That would prove he was still disciplined. That he hadn’t fallen behind.

But his hand didn’t move. 

Instead, he sat there in silence, every breath deep and shallow at once. His jaw hurt — he hadn’t realized how hard he’d been clenching it. His head pulsed faintly behind his temples. And his stomach, despite the carefully balanced meal, felt sick.

He’d failed. Again.

He could’ve spoken louder. He could have insisted. He could have said, “You don’t understand what I went through.”

But he hadn’t.

He’d lied. He’d thanked her for the meal. 

He’d retreated.

Riddle stood abruptly, paced across the room, then stopped beside the bed.

He didn’t want to study. Not right now. He didn’t want to rehearse arguments he’d never voice. He didn’t want to sit in silence, alone, pretending everything was fine. 

So he reached for his phone.

This — this part was new. Just a few months ago, he wouldn’t have reached out at all. He would have swallowed it down, tucked his anger away, and excused himself politely. But he’d been working on this. On asking. On trusting.

He opened his contacts and tapped on Trey’s name. If anyone would understand, even a little, it was him. 

His thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before typing. 

Are you free at the moment? I apologize for the sudden message, I was hoping to talk to you. It’s nothing urgent. I’ve just had a difficult evening.

Was it ‘stuffy’, as Cater might say? Certainly. But it’s more than he would’ve sent in the past.

His fingers twitched with the urge to delete it. To correct it. To send nothing at all.

But he didn’t. 

He hit send. 

The phone screen dimmed. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring ahead, then leaned back slowly, letting himself fall into the unyielding mattress. The tension in his spine didn’t ease. 

The buzz of his phone was soft, barely audible. But in this house, nothing went unnoticed. 

Riddle reached for his phone without thinking. The edge of his sleeve caught the screen just wrong, and the phone slipped from his hand with a soft but distinct thud. It bounced once, smacked the wall, and disappeared into the narrow shadows between his bed and the floorboards.

He froze.

The sound wasn’t loud, not really. But it was sharp. A break in the stillness that rang far too clearly in a house like this. 

His stomach twisted. He stayed perfectly still, listening.

Then–

“Riddle?”

There it was. His mother’s voice, just slightly muffled through the door. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Mother,” he called back, keeping his tone even. “I’m moving the bed back into place, as you said. Apologies for the noise.”

A beat of silence.

“Don’t scuff the wall.”

“I won’t.”

He waited a few seconds longer. No footsteps. No follow-up. Just silence again, deep and choking. Only then did he let out a breath. His palms were sweating.

Riddle knelt on the floor to check again. Just a sliver of the phone screen was visible, glinting near the wall. Still unreachable. He’d have to move the bed.

It took more effort than expected. The legs of the bed had rubber stops, likely his mother’s doing — to prevent sliding, or maybe simply to prevent change. Riddle braced his hands against the frame and shoved hard, inch by inch, until the corner finally gave way and let him shift it aside.

That’s when he saw it.

At first, it looked like a patch in the wallpaper. A square where the pattern didn’t quite line up. His mother would have never allowed that. But Riddle remembered — just vaguely — being very small and sitting there. Back when he could more easily slip into the gap between his bed and the wall. There had been something about that spot. A hideaway. A little cubby. He hadn’t thought of it in years.

And yet, here it was:

A low, rectangular door, barely taller than a foot, tucked against the base of the wall.

What caught his eye was the edge: a neat seam in the wood, painted over but now cracking faintly. It had been sealed shut at some point. On purpose. 

But not very well.

Riddle reached out. The wallpaper crinkled under his fingers. 

And the little door moved. 

His phone was all but forgotten as he knelt in front of the little door, running a finger along the seam. The wallpaper peeled up easily beneath his touch — far too easily, really. His mother would have his head for damaging it, and the contractor’s for making it so easy to damage. 

He could already hear the scolding in his head” “This room was repaired just last year. Do you know how much it cost to have the print aligned properly?”

But right now, he didn’t care. 

She hadn’t listened. She hadn’t heard any of it. So what did it matter if he ruined the edge of a wall she’d already decided was more important than him?

He dug his nails into the soft crease and pulled. The flap came loose with a dry, papery sound. Behind it, the tiny wooden door revealed itself fully — dusted, painted shut at some point, but not well. Riddle pulled again gently; his fingers slipped into the hole where a doorknob should’ve been. 

It opened with a soft pop. 

He expected to see the old cubby. Maybe a couple forgotten toys — some of the few he was allowed to have as a child — or just the smell of dust and insulation. But what met him wasn’t a crawlspace or even the wall of the adjacent family study.

It was a hallway.

Not an incredibly cramped one, either. A long, narrow tunnel, paneled with dark wood and lined with fading, floral wallpaper. Light pulsed faintly at the other end — warm and flickering, like candlelight — though he could see no source. 

And at the very end of it, just barely visible through the strange glow, was another door. 

A real door. Small, similar to the one he had just pried open. Its frame was trimmed in something metallic, and Riddle could just make out the glint of a brass doorknob.

He stared.

The wall shouldn’t be more than a meter thick. There wasn’t enough space for a tunnel, let alone a door that distant. The math didn’t work. The floor plan didn’t allow for it. There was simply no place for it to exist. 

And yet.

He leaned a little closer, resting one hand on the floorboards. A strange warmth seeped from the tunnel — cozy, almost comforting, like someone had just baked something sweet. 

He should’ve walked away. 

But something about that second door pulled at him. A quiet, persistent “what if” that hooked itself in his chest and tugged. 

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting his mother to have sensed his activities and come to investigate. But the house remained still. That perfect, airless silence. 

No one behind him. No footsteps. No voice telling him to stop.

Instead, Riddle crouched lower, inspecting the entry. 

It was narrow. Really narrow.

He sighed through his nose.

It was disappointing, honestly, how easily he could still fit. 

“It would be nice,” he muttered, “to have outgrown something.”

Then he bent his knees, ducked his head, and crawled through. 

The wood beneath his palms was smooth, almost polished. The air grew warmer as he moved forward, though not musty as he’d expected. It didn’t smell like dust. In fact, it smelled faintly like…sugar?

The farther he went, the more the walls around him softened. Not physically, but visually. The wallpaper less faded, more vibrant. The floors shinier. The darkness wasn’t oppressive. It was almost inviting. 

Still, unease crept up his spine. 

This really shouldn’t be here.

Seventh Day of the Seventh Month

This journal is nearly full. I’ll need another soon. I asked Mama to bring a new one during her next visit, which should be two days from now. The last journal filled much faster than expected as well. Still, I suppose it’s better to write regularly than fall behind on my reflection.

But enough of that. Today began as any other, as all proper days should.

I rose at six o’clock sharp, as scheduled. Hair care took a full two hours. It’s grown far past my own height now, reaching past the base of the tower, though Mama claims it’ll grow even longer with time. I brushed it precisely one hundred strokes, then braided it before breakfast.

The morning meal was as planned: barley bread with honey, and one of the apples Mama left for the week. I admit, I was tempted to take the apple early while the tea steeped, but breakfast is not until the third hour. To eat before then would be to disrupt the schedule. I waited, of course. A proper day begins with restraint.  

I boiled tea with dried rose petals and chamomile — the last pouch for the batch. She said she would bring more next time she visits, likely in two days when the perishable items run low. The meal plans she left me end that day as well; I presume she will bring me a new one when she returns.

After eating, I swept the stairwell, as usual. Dust collects near the base — there is no door, but there is a window — so it still finds its way in.

From eight to ten I studied logic and rhetoric from “Classical Foundations of Magical Governance”. I completed two chapters and underlined the most relevant axioms in red ink. Afterward, I cleaned the windows and dusted the bookshelves in the sitting room, then swept the staircase (though no one but me uses it, of course). 

At three o’clock sharp, I took tea by the window and reviewed my notes while watching the woods outside. I believe I saw a fox at the edge of the clearing. It’s difficult to get a good look from this height.

During my free hour, I chose to paint. Today’s subject was the sky just before dusk — the way the light turns the clouds lavender and pale gold. I’m still unsatisfied with how I render light, though. The effect feels… unruly. I’ll try again tomorrow. 

I ended the evening with a light supper — a hard cheese, oat biscuits, and the last of the carrot preserves. Mama arranged the meals to last perfectly until her return, as always. 

The breeze is cooler tonight — I’ll need to close the curtain before bed. Tomorrow’s schedule is set. I’ll begin again at six.

— Riddle

Eighth Day of the Seventh Month

Mama should arrive tomorrow. She said, when she last visited, that the food schedule would carry me through eight full days. True to her word, it has — though the oat loaf will be gone after breakfast, and there’s only a pinch of dried fruit left for tea. She always plans perfectly. I suspect she enjoys testing my consistency as much as I enjoy passing such tests.

She often travels for her work, tending to patients across the land. She says healing is a responsibility, not a convenience, and that it must be done with precision. I understand. People rely on her. She will return when the time is right, as always. 

I followed my standard routine today — though I finished the sweeping portion rather early. There’s very little to clean, truthfully. The tower is always still. No mud tracked across the stone. The dust barely exists, though I continue to search for it out of principle. 

I polished the sconces again, despite having done so just yesterday. And the day before. But a well-kept space is the sign of a well-kept mind. 

Breakfast: oat loaf and butter. Studies from eight to ten: reviewing magical law pertaining to use of enchantments in civil spaces (Mama said it’s important to understand how the world governs itself, even if it’s not safe to be part of it). Then laundry — though, as I’m the only one who lives here, there wasn’t much to do. 

The sunlight through the window was especially strong this morning, which made reading easier, though I had to adjust the curtain to keep the glare from hitting the desk. It’s fortunate the window is placed so precisely; Mama always said towers built with care have no need for doors, and I understand the logic. Fewer entrances mean fewer chances for mess or surprises. 

During my free hour, I tried painting the fox from memory. I’m not certain I got the colour of its fur right. It came out a bit too orange. I should consult a natural history book next time. 

Supper was broth and vegetable loaf. Light, but adequate. I’m not to eat heavily before bed. 

I will prepare tomorrow for Mama’s arrival — brush my hair thoroughly, tidy the east corner again, and make tea before she arrives midday. 

She will most likely perform her usual inspections on my hair — plucking a few strands near the base of the neck to remove imbalance, she says. It stings if I haven’t oiled properly enough, but that is my own fault. I must remember to unbraid it this time; though it keeps it out of the way during chores, Mama prefers it loose when she climbs.

— Riddle

Ninth Day of the Seventh Month

I was ready this morning. I woke at six as usual, brushed my hair precisely one hundred strokes, and tidied the tower twice over. I even polished the brass candlestick Mama favours — the one with the rose motif at the base. I had tea prepared by midday. The table was properly set.

But she didn’t come.

The meal schedule indicated her arrival today. The plan she left had clear markings: red ink for expiration dates, green for meal divisions. Lunch today was the final ration — stewed barley with preserved root vegetables, which I ate slowly. I debated saving it for later, but the plan called for midday. Delaying would have meant disruption. 

I considered that I may have miscalculated the schedule. But I didn’t miscalculate. 

I’ve checked the schedule three times. There’s no ambiguity. Today was the day. I even went back through my previous entries to confirm. All the meals lined up exactly. Mama always plans perfectly. She said eight days, and this is the ninth. Unless… I’ve misunderstood something. Perhaps I ate the dried apricots too early and confused myself? No — she labelled those for Day Six. 

Could she have been delayed? She once mentioned the path through the forest takes time. Perhaps she was stopped by weather, or an animal crossing. Or she lost track of time. Perish the thought. Mama never loses track of time. 

I must have made a mistake.

It’s possible I misread something. Or failed to portion correctly. Or forgot a meal entirely and didn’t record it — though the thought of such an oversight is nauseating. That would mean I’ve broken the schedule. That would mean I’ve been careless. 

No. I’ll wait. She’ll come tomorrow. It’s likely something small, something trivial. 

She always comes. 

— Riddle

Tenth Day of the Seventh Month

She didn’t come today either.

I woke early. I was ready again. I did everything the same as yesterday — hair, clothes, polishing, the tea set, even though there’s no more tea to make. I cleaned the same corner twice. Then the stairs. Then the windowsill. There is nothing left to clean, but I did it anyway. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what I’ve always done.

No food left. Not even barley crumbs in the tin. I scraped it. Useless.

I’m not hungry. Not yet. It’s only been — well. One day, and then some. I’ve gone longer between meals when I was sick once. I remember that. I was ten. Mama said fasting helps the body reset its order. So this is fine. This is normal. Everything is returning to order.

I’ve looked out the window thirteen — now fourteen  times today. No movement in the trees. No sound in the wind. Nothing but the forest and the sky, and the birds flying wherever they please. 

The food schedule was correct. I know it. I know it. I haven’t made a mistake. I reviewed every note she left. I followed it. I always follow it. I did everything right.

She must have been delayed. She must be coming tomorrow. She has to.

I’m sure I just misunderstood. Maybe she said ten days, and I only heard eight. Or maybe she meant to test me. Or maybe this is all part of something important. Perhaps she told me and I forgot. I shouldn’t forget. I don’t forget. But maybe I did. 

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I shouldn’t write that she

What happens if she never

Foolish. I’m not to entertain nonsense. She’ll come. I’ve just misunderstood. That’s all.

— Riddle

Eleventh Day of the Seventh Month

Mama came today.

The sun had just passed its peak when I saw her silhouette between the trees. I had just finished polishing the bannister again — there was no need, of course, but I couldn’t sit still. My stomach had begun to ache sometime around midmorning. I’ve not eaten since lunch on the ninth, and the ache has settled, deep but persistent. 

Still, I stood straight by the window, hair loose, the tea things set out. Everything in its place.

I let my hair fall from the window as soon as I saw her approach the base of the tower. She prefers it unbraided — she says it catches less that way. The weight of it always surprises me at first, but the pull isn’t painful. She climbed as she always does. I kept still until I felt the shift of her shoes on the ledge. 

She didn’t greet me when she entered, though that isn’t unusual. Only when she laid out her satchel on the table did she ask whether I’d kept to the plan. I answered yes. She mentioned that I looked thinner. I waited for her to bring up the delay in her return, but she didn't apologize. Instead, she sighed and said that I must understand — she gives so much to keep me safe.

I felt ashamed for even thinking to ask. After all, she came back. That should be enough.

Mama explained that one of her patients took a turn, something mild but inconvenient. She said it couldn’t be helped. Of course. Her work is important. I know that.

She brought a new meal schedule — longer this time, meant to stretch until the end of the month — and with it, several wrapped parcels: dried barley cakes, vegetable preserves, wild rice, and a jar of pickled roots. She said they promote circulation, especially in colder months. There was also dried fruit (plums, I think), and she made a note to bring more “iron-rich produce” next time. She listed each item’s benefit as she unpacked, though she never asked what I missed most.

The books she brought were mostly medicinal this time: a compendium of herbal remedies, a study of aura fluctuation in infants, and another volume of “Classical Foundations”. 

She asked whether I had practiced my posture during writing, if I’d stood often enough during study, and whether the light in the tower had been adequate. I said yes to all.

Then came time for my hair. It was still loose in preparation for her departure. She combed through the strands, taking her time. It certainly is difficult, sitting up straight as she works her way through the entire length. When she began plucking, I winced, though I tried not to. She said the pain was from poor conditioning, that I’d let my hair dry out — she later adjusted my schedule to allow more time for hair care, though I now have less free time. 

She took five strands. I counted this time. It’s quite interesting to watch how she stores them: the strands are wound around a wooden spool, almost like thread. I once asked her why she takes the strands. She had told me that some people’s bodies carry natural humours that others lack, and that my body happens to be particularly well-balanced. She said a few filaments now and then may serve more than a full tonic in the right hands. She had said it so plainly, so rationally, that I felt rather silly for not having thought of it myself. 

She stayed only a little while longer after that. By the time I’d placed the barley cakes in the pantry, she was already calling me to let her down the wall. When she finally began to climb down, she didn’t look back. She never does. 

Everything is back in order. The ache in my stomach will fade once I’ve eaten, and the quiet feels normal again. Familiar, even. 

Still — I find myself listening for her footsteps, long after they’ve faded. 

— Riddle

Seventeenth Day of the Seventh Month

I hadn’t realized so many days had passed. 

The schedule continued more or less as planned. Mama had adjusted the study blocks slightly to account for the new texts. She labelled the remedies by region, so I’ve been cross-referencing the names with older notes. It’s slow work, but not unpleasant. 

Since Mama’s visit, I’ve resumed meals according to the schedule. The barley cakes are dense enough to last through the week, and I’ve been more careful with the preserves. The meal schedule indicates I should have enough food to last through the twenty-third, should I continue to follow it.

I’ve been spending more time tending to my hair than I used to, per Mama’s instructions. The plucking left a slight soreness near the scalp, so I’ve been warming the oil before applying it. It’s helped, I think. I’ve even tried trimming the flyaways near the temples — not cutting more than that, or course.

I’ve also resumed tending to the small herb pots. The mint and lemon balm have both recovered after the last pruning. The shears Mama gave me are quite sharp — I must be careful not to over-trim again.

In truth, I’ve neglected this journal. Not for any real reason — there simply hasn’t been much to report. There never is. Reading back on previous entries has shown me that.

I’ve had… thoughts lately, but I didn’t feel they were essential enough to write down. Besides, Mama sometimes glances at my notes when she visits. It’s not that I’ve written anything improper. Only, — some things are better left unsaid. 

I’ll do my best to resume regular entries tomorrow. 

— Riddle

Nineteenth Day of the Seventh Month

I’ve neglected my writing again. Two days, I think. The schedule became… less strict. Not broken, only stretched. I had a reason.

A bird came. 

It appeared on the window ledge sometime before dawn — grey and shivering, one wing curled too tightly to be natural. I thought it was dead at first, but then it moved, just barely. I wasn’t sure what to do. There was no protocol for this. Mama left no instructions for such an occurrence.

I brought it inside. Gently, I think. It was so light. I didn’t want to frighten it further, so I used my braid to cushion it, to keep it warm. It seems odd in hindsight, yet at the moment it was just instinct. I remember thinking the weight of my hair may be too much for the small creature, but its feathers relaxed into the strands with ease.

And then there was light.

Faint at first, then steady. The bird had twitched, flinched, stretched its wing. I saw the skin realign where it had folded. The glow faded. The bird stood.

It flies now. 

It hasn’t left, not yet. It sits by the window during lessons, sometimes near the hearth when I read. I’ve given it water and a few of the dried berries. I may have to adjust my food portions slightly to accommodate, but… I’m certain this is an acceptable exception to the rules.

This entire situation is odd. I didn’t imagine the light. I know that for certain. 

Once night fell, I pricked my finger on one of the spare sewing needles, and then wrapped the wound with a strand of hair — not much, just a single length, the way she takes them. It tingled, then faded. No mark remained. The sensation was strange — not painful, but not neutral, either. A kind of warmth that pushed outward, like something leaving me.

I didn’t feel weaker. Not exactly. But something shifted. I just can’t say what.

I’ve reviewed my old notes twice now, along with every reference book Mama had brought in the past. No mention of magical properties in hair, not even in the advanced texts. I thought of asking Mama when she returns, but I know what she’ll say. “It’s not your concern.”

Maybe it isn’t. But then why does it feel like it should be?

I must have misunderstood something. There’s probably a better explanation. She wouldn’t keep something like this from me. She didn’t tell me. I’m sure she meant to. Or I wasn’t ready to know yet. I’ve most likely done something wrong — missed a signal, failed to ask the right question.

I’ll do better next time. Tomorrow, I will continue my research. 

— Riddle

Twentieth Day of the Seventh Month

Barley cake, rose tea, half an apple for breakfast. 

Researched vital essences and restorative humours. No confirmed cases of healing properties transferred through hair or bodily remnants. 

Lunch: carrot preserves, oat biscuit. 

Swept the stairwell.

Brushed hair. 100 strokes.

Fed the bird.

Skipped supper.

Copied diagrams from the aura texts.

— Riddle

Twenty-Second Day of the Seventh Month

I’ve fallen behind. Not by much — just a few missed notes, some forgotten chores. I’ve kept up with the readings, mostly, though not always during the assigned blocks. I overslept yesterday. Breakfast became lunch, and supper was skipped entirely. I shared part of today’s ration with the bird, which means I’ll need to divide tomorrow’s carefully. The calculations aren’t difficult. The disruption is only temporary.

I steeped mint from my own window pot this morning. It’s not as fragrant as the dried pouch she used to bring, yet it still brings the focus I need.

The bird still hasn’t left. It sits on the windowsill most days, or follows me from room to room. It chirps when I enter, like it’s greeting me. The window has remained open since it arrived, and yet it still hasn’t gone. It could. Easily.

It chooses to stay.

I think that’s what unsettles me most. 

I’ve returned to the older volumes — those she left last spring and again last month. Aura theory, medicinal practice, transference studies. None of them mention what I’ve seen. Nothing about regenerative properties, especially regarding hair. No diagrams of healing light. No explanations. 

I’ve tested it again. A shallow scratch along the back of my hand. I wrapped a strand like before — tight, but not too tight. It pulsed. Warm, for a moment. Then gone. No wound. Not even a scar.

I don’t know what it means. 

I keep thinking about what she said, years ago. Not just the words, but the way she said them. “Some bodies produce what others lack.”

At the time, I thought she meant it kindly. Now I wonder if she meant it efficiently.

It sounded reasonable. Scientific. And yet she’s never explained how. Never told me what she uses the strands for. Never asked if I wanted her to. 

I thought it was normal. Routine. But routines are supposed to be shared. Explained. Aren’t they? She has made a point to explain every other system she has put in place for me, yet this one… this one she has not.

If my hair heals — if it helps people — then why wasn’t I allowed to know?

Did she think I wouldn't understand? Or that I might say no?

No. That’s unlike her. She wouldn’t hide something without reason. She’s careful. Always careful. 

There must be something I’m missing. Something I haven’t read closely enough.

She wouldn’t lie. She wouldn’t.

— Riddle

Twenty-Third Day of the Seventh Month

I didn’t realize what day it was. I’d been reviewing the tonic charts all morning — trying to cross-reference them with transference notes from the older field books. Some of the symbols repeat, but they’re used differently. I was halfway through annotating a comparison page when I heard her voice from below.

Mother called my name. Once. Calm as always. Her voice startled me so badly I dropped the ink brush. It left a line across the margin.

I’d forgotten. I hadn't prepared. 

I’d swept the stairwell the night before and cleaned the hearth this morning, though not at the usual time. The tea was cold and untouched. The table hadn’t been set. The hearth was cold. My hair was still braided. I tugged the ribbon and tried to work it loose, but there’s only so much one can do with a tower’s length of hair in less than a minute.

And the bird–

I panicked. I didn't think. I just scooped it up and tucked it behind the old curtain in the east alcove. It looked at me like it understood, like it trusted me. I don’t know why I was so afraid she’d see.

When she climbed through the window, she looked at it. Not long. Just long enough for me to understand her disapproval. She didn’t scold me, not exactly. Just mentioned that it made things more difficult for her.

I apologized. Immediately. Said I’d meant to unfasten it, that I’d been reviewing medical texts. She said nothing in reply.

She asked about the food schedule. I told her I’d kept to it.

She asked about the cleaning, the study blocks. I said yes.

She didn’t press. I don’t know whether she believed me. 

I didn’t want to lie. But I was too afraid to explain.

She opened the cupboards and took note of what remained from the previous weeks. She mentioned that there was more than there ought to be. I said nothing. She didn’t push the matter, thankfully. 

She brought more food: root preserves, dried greens, oats, lemon peel. As usual, she listed the health benefits of each — this for digestion, that for clarity, this for strengthening the blood. I tried to listen. I really did. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the chart, to the bird, to what I’ve begun to suspect. 

She brought a slim book on autumn infusions. She didn’t ask what I’d been reading, or whether I needed anything else. 

While she examined my hair, she worked quickly, with fewer comments than usual. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, pulling strands and winding them around a spool. At one point, I asked whether I might see how the strands are used — just to understand. She paused, briefly, then said that if I want to help people, this is how I should help.

She’s never asked if I wanted to help others. I do, truthfully, but… shouldn’t there be another way?

I didn’t ask again.

While she worked, the bird chirped from being the curtain. Just once. A soft, short sound. She didn’t react, or didn’t hear it. I didn’t look toward the alcove. My throat felt tight.

She left before the light faded. I watched her disappear beneath the trees. 

I don’t know why I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

— Riddle 

Twenty-Fourth Day of the Seventh Month

Oats and tea for breakfast.

Swept the stairwell. Cleaned the windowsill. 

Copied half a page of herbal notes. Read two chapters from the autumn tonic guide.

Brushed hair. Applied oil to scalp. Still sore near the crown.

Fed the bird.

Didn’t feel like lunch.

Reviewed anatomy diagrams until the light faded. 

Will try again tomorrow.

— Riddle

Twenty-Seventh Day of the Seventh Month

I haven’t written anything for the past two days.

Not because I forgot, I thought about it several times, but… I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t decide what to say, so I chose to say nothing instead. 

I kept to the food schedule. Mostly. The numbers line up, even if the meals were scattered. I added a few berries — ones growing on the vines climbing up the tower wall — to the midday tea. They were tart, but the bird liked them. 

I read. Not the new books — back to the old ones. The aura diagrams still don’t make sense, but I traced them again anyway. My hand hurt after the third copy.

The bird has taken to hopping onto the table while I write. It pecked at the corner of my sleeve, then stood on the ink blotter until I moved it. I’m not sure if that means anything. Maybe the bird just likes having company. 

I feel as though I’m forgetting something. Or missing something. Something important.

I’ll try again tomorrow. 

— Riddle

Twenty-Eighth Day of the Seventh Month

Tested a new strand against a fresh scratch. Same result — heals cleanly within minutes. No trace of bruising.

Tried applying the strand without direct contact. No reaction. Seems proximity isn’t enough. Must require skin-to-fibre contact.

Tried cutting a strand instead of plucking. No reaction. Trimmed hair turned to a dull black hue, contrary to the usual red. 

Repeated the experiment several more times. Same result. Severance from the root results in loss of color and function.

It’s the root. The root contains whatever balance or essence the effect depends on. Recall Mother once saying “Cutting ruins it. It severs the balance.” She told me the rule. She never told me the reason.

No reference in the Galenic index to hair-based restoratives. Closest is a footnote about tinctures infused with “humoural traces”. Might be related. Unclear.

If it’s healing — how?

If it’s drawing something out of me, then what am I losing?

(Supposed to record this in the red ledger. Will copy it over tomorrow.)

Breakfast: barley and preserved root. Bird dropped an oat flake in its water bowl and stared at me. It’s not injured — I’ve checked it over and over again. I don’t understand why it stays. 

Cleaned the stairs. Didn’t finish reading block. Will resume tomorrow. Brushed hair. Snagged the comb and the spine cracked. Will find a replacement comb in the morning.

— Riddle

Thirtieth Day of the Seventh Month

The bird was gone this morning.

I noticed just after breakfast. Its usual perch was empty. I checked the windowsill, then the floorboards, then behind the curtain in the east alcove. I checked the pantry shelves even, thinking maybe the bird had grown tired of waiting for me to feed it.

I tried to continue reading after my search proved fruitless. The word wouldn’t settle. I swept the stairwell, then forgot I had already done so and swept again. 

It returned just after midday. 

There was something tucked into its claws. A flower — small, pale violet, not yet wilted. I recognized it from one of the older botanical texts: a variety of gentian. It only blooms with constant tending, in damp soil, sheltered from too much sun. It’s delicate. Rarely does it grow in the wild.

Someone must have planted it. Someone must be caring for it.

I keep looking at it. It’s real. I don’t know why it makes my chest feel strange.

I’d like to see more things like that, I think.

The bird has remained on the windowsill since lunch.

— Riddle

Thirty-First Day of the Seventh Month

More healing tests. Fresh cut from fumbling with the herb shears this morning. Used two strands. Both worked, healing time remained the same.

Finished the gentian diagram. Compared it to various drawings of the same genus. No exact matches.

The bird hasn’t left the windowsill for most of the day. It keeps looking out. Like it’s waiting for something. It’s too clean to be wild. Feathers neat. I think it must have belonged to someone. 

Breakfast: oatcake and plum tea.

Skipped lunch.

Brushed hair. Found replacement comb in the side drawer. 

Reviewed potion charts. Failed to retain much.

— Riddle

Second Day of the Eighth Month

I swept the stairwell again this morning. It didn’t need it. I just needed something to do, I think.

While I was working, I started wondering why the tower was built this way. No doors. Only one window. The rope ladder Mother once used has been gone for years. She says the height keeps things out.

But still — why not choose a smaller home, somewhere on a hill, with a door and proper stairs? Something easier.

Unless the tower isn’t meant to keep things out.

The bird finally hopped down from the windowsill while I was reading and walked along the edge of the desk. It didn’t look at me, just paced along one of the stacked volumes, then flew back up to its spot.

It’s still waiting. I’m sure of it now.

I returned to my notes. I haven’t been able to measure any fatigue or internal cost, but it must come from somewhere. No source creates without taking. Mother always says that.

I keep thinking about what she’s protecting me from. She said there are people out there who are cruel. That it was safer here, with her. That if I left, I might be taken — that people would harvest what they could from me.

She said it with such certainty. I believed her. I still do. Mostly.

But what if she’s no better than the people she’s warned me about?

I’ll resume charting later.

— Riddle

Fourth Day of the Eighth Month

The bird was more excitable today, chirping louder than usual. Not its idle notes either — this was sharp, fast, and most notably urgent. I was in the study corner, copying from the herbal index. At first, I ignored it.

Then I heard a voice.

Not Mother’s, no. But still human. Rising from below, somewhere near the base of the tower. A soft tone at first, then clearer. They were speaking to the bird. 

I didn’t recognize the words at first. Something about “there you are” and “come back”. The bird flew from the sill almost immediately, gliding down and out of sight. 

I stepped away from the window and stood behind the curtain. I don’t know why. Maybe I assumed it was better to not be seen,

The voice kept going, calm. Conversational. Kind. I couldn’t make out most of it, only that they weren’t angry. No shouting. No panic.

Then they called up. “Is anyone up there?”

I didn’t answer.

They waited. I heard nothing but wind for a few moments. The voice spoke again, softer, yet I couldn’t make out the words.

I waited until it was quiet. Then I moved to the edge of the window, carefully, and looked out.

They were already walking away. The coat they wore was a warm brown colour — not like mine. Light stitching at the sleeves. There was something bright at the shoulder, maybe a scarf or a bag. 

The bird flew beside them, looping ahead, circling back. It looked excited. It didn’t hesitate.

I briefly considered calling out, but it was too late. They both vanished back into the woods. 

The tower is silent now. I’m happy the bird has found his home, truly. It doesn’t make the tower any less lonely.

Mother said there were people in the world who would break the walls of this tower and rip me from the inside.

But that one didn’t.

— Riddle

Fifth Day of the Eighth Month

Barley cake and nettle tea for breakfast. Swept the stairwell. Cleaned the basin. Brushed hair.

No sign of the bird. I’ve caught myself checking the windowsill multiple times today. It’s strange not hearing it. I’m used to the way it would click its beak while I read, or how it would shuffle along the desk just before lunch. I didn’t think I’d notice the quiet this much.

The person from yesterday — whoever they were — didn’t sound upset. They were glad to see the bird. Happy, even. I didn’t expect that.

I remembered the time I tried to leave the tower. Just once. Years ago. I’d tied the blanket corners and climbed down six feet before I was left with nothing to climb. She caught me. She was furious. The window was barred for weeks after. She said it was for my own good. That I needed to understand what danger really meant.

She removed the bars once I’d learnt better. I never tried again.

I meant to review more healing notes today. Couldn’t focus. Will continue tomorrow. 

— Riddle

Sixth Day of the Eighth Month

Mother came today. I heard her call from below. I had the foresight to untie the braid last night when I remembered her scheduled visit. 

She asked about the meal plan. I told her I was following it. 

She asked if I’d been studying. I said yes.

She didn’t ask anything else. She never does. 

She brought more dried root, a new meal chart, and a bundle of fresh mint. Said it would help with focus. 

She did my hair. Fewer words than usual. Her hands felt colder. Maybe mine did. She was less gentle than usual. I think she took more strands this time. 

I asked if I’d be allowed to leave with her after her next visit. I reminded her that my birthday is at the end of the month. 

She said I’m not ready.

I tried to press, just a little. Said I’d studied. That I understood more now. That I’d followed every schedule she ever gave me.

She barely reacted. Said I was too valuable to risk. That people would do anything to get what I have.

She didn’t say they’d hurt me. She said they’d ruin the balance.

I didn’t say anything else.

She left before dusk.

The tower is very quiet again.

— Riddle

Ninth Day of the Eighth Month

Brushed hair. Forgot to count the strokes. Swept half of the stairwell. Forgot where I stopped. 

I meant to review the diagrams. I stared at them for an hour. I think I only turned one page. 

The bird’s still gone. It’s been — three days? Four? I keep thinking I hear it, but it’s just the wind.

I didn’t realise how much I was waiting for something.

I think I always thought I’d leave. One day. Not soon, but… eventually. 

She said when I turned eighteen. I believed her. That was foolish. 

She says I’m not ready. Will I ever be ready?

I don’t want a grand adventure. I don’t want to run away. I just –

I want to see where that flower came from. 

I want someone to talk to.

Just for a while. 

— Riddle

Thirteenth Day of the Eighth Month

The tower feels smaller than it used to.

I’ve walked every inch of it. I know the cracks in the stone, the way the air moves when the wind changes. 

I know what it looks like when she’s coming, before she even calls. I know the sound the floor makes beneath my feet. I know where the dust settles first. 

I know everything here. It no longer feels as safe as it once did.

What is left for me?

— Riddle

Twentieth Day of the Eighth Month

She came today. She’s been keeping her schedule after her unusual delay last month. I know when to expect her now.

I opened the window in time, but didn’t look out while she climbed. I had the table cleared. The charts put away. The braid unfastened. Everything as it should be.

She brought preserved lentils, a fresh root bundle, and a small packet of dried apple slices. She said they were for my birthday. Four days early — she won’t be back by then.

I said thank you. I didn't ask why she wouldn't return. 

She asked if I’d been eating properly. I said yes.

She asked if I’d kept up with my studies. I said yes.

She didn't check the cupboard this time.

She sat while I knelt, tied off the strands without comment. More plucking than usual today. 

She didn't stay long. She never does. 

I swept after she left. I'm not sure why. 

The bird came back tonight, another flower tucked in its claws. It settled on the sill without a sound. 

It hasn’t moved. Not even to preen. Just watching. 

I don't know how it knows. But I think it does.

— Riddle

Twenty-Third Day of the Eighth Month

I cut it off.

There’s too much of it. It would catch on branches. Weigh too heavily if it rained. Maybe that was the reason she let it grow for so long — not because the length mattered for the healing, but because it slowed me down. Kept me heavy. Kept me here. Kept me hers.

I used the shears meant for herbs. They were sharper than I expected. 

The comb doesn’t drag anymore. I can see my neck in the mirror.

I swept up what fell. Put it in the basket.

I tested a few strands, just to be sure. The short ones still worked. The healing hasn’t vanished.

The magic is still here — but it’s not hers anymore.

Still, I wonder if part of me has been destroyed with it.

Not the magic. Something else.

But I feel that I don’t need it.

I’ll heal on my own.

That’s all.

— Riddle

Twenty-Fourth of the Eighth Month

I am eighteen today.

I packed two oat cakes, dried apple slices, preserved root, barley tea powder, and a water flask. A roll of linen and the salve jar. Matches. A book.

The bird has been tapping on the sill every so often since sunrise. It hasn’t left. Its wings keep flicking like it’s waiting. 

I will leave the journal on the desk, open to this page.

If she returns, she’ll see it.

Leaving may be difficult. There is no door I can easily walk out of.

But there is a window.