Lydia's Point Of View
The air in my grandmother's living room didn't just feel still; it felt as though someone had replaced it with thick, invisible wool that slowly clogged my lungs.
With each breath, I inhaled the dust of a hundred years of "tradition" and "legacy"… words that had become weapons in this house, sharpened and wielded with ruthless precision. I stood there, hands shaking so violently I had to bury them deep in my coat pockets, watching these people… my own blood, discuss my life as if they were haggling over the price of a used sedan.
The casual cruelty of it all made my throat tighten.
They were ready to sell me off. Ready to throw me into a tomb with a decaying fossil just to keep the Moore name on a skyscraper. The thought made my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat. It was suffocating. It was insulting. It was everything I'd feared since childhood… being reduced to a bargaining chip, a means to an end.
