Lydia's Point Of View
The walk back to my bedroom felt like dragging my limbs through thick, freezing mud. Each step required conscious effort, as though invisible hands clutched at my ankles, pulling me down toward some unseen abyss.
The hallway carpet, usually so soft beneath my feet, felt completely uneven, every fiber seemed to catch at my shoes, threatening to trip me. The gold-framed portraits of our ancestors lining the walls seemed to stare down at me with absolute, cold judgment.
I could feel their painted eyes following my shameful retreat, bearing witness to my disgrace. Great-grandmother Marguerite with her severe bun and pearls. Grandfather Theodore with his military medals. All of them watching me fail.
