"welcome, little one."

• ( start )

CHARACTER INFO

name: matilda
age: 9
timeline: past (childhood)
likes:
francis (her teddy bear)
dislikes:
her family mangoes

MORE

constantly finds anyone to play with but is never allowed to go outside._{"mom, why can't i play with them?" - matilda}

• ( back )

BACKSTORY

Sunlight paints crooked lines across the kitchen tiles as I linger by the door, Francis, my teddy, dangling limp from my arm. The kitchen hums as the soup’s rolling boil, the rhythmic clatter of utensils, the tense silence in my mother’s shoulders.My question slips out, delicate and tentative."Mom, can I go outside?" My voice is as thin as a breath.She doesn’t turn. Her back remains rigid, angled against the pull of both the steam and my hope.“No, it’s safer here. I’ve told you before.”She softens just enough to add, “You have your teddy bear, right? Go play in your room.”Even after she turns back to her stirring, the word “safer” circles in my mind, heavier than steam, more persistent than the kettle’s whistle. Is what’s beyond the door dangerous—or just unknown? With Francis hugged close, I slip from the warmth of the kitchen, feeling the magnetic tug of possibilities just beyond reach.The world contracts as I enter our shared room. My sister is cocooned in music, a blue flip phone glow painting her face. I hesitate, caught at the edge of her sight, and try to build a fragile bridge.“Sis, do y—”She silences me with a sharp click of her tongue.A hush swells between us, dense with unspoken things. I retreat to my corner, making Francis my audience, drawing constellations on scarred floorboards. I wonder about sisters who are more than two people who share a room—sisters who circle each other in laughter and shared stories, not just... space.Grey light creeps through cloudy glass. Outside, a crow stalks patches of scraggly grass. Somewhere past the fence, a laugh skips by—the sound of freedom carried by bike wheels. I close my eyes and imagine grabbing Francis’s fuzzy paw and dashing for the street, wind tangling my hair.“Francis, do you think we’d make it to the mailbox if we built wings?” He listens in perfect patience as my curiosity steadily outgrows my fear.Here, windows are more than glass. They’re periscopes into elsewhere—a world just beyond! I just know it...A slam interrupts the hush. The front door.Dad must be here.Dad’s heavy footsteps thunder down the hall. For a heartbeat, hope stirs—maybe he’ll let me go, maybe everything will change for once—“Hey, Dad! Welcome home! Wanna play with me? Mom won’t let me go outside, but maybe you could—”He cuts me off with a wave with a hint of exhaustion.“Go play with your sister.”His presence leaves a lingering shadow, his weariness settling over the house like an old blanket. The quiet between rooms stretches, thinner and colder.My sister slips out, a bag on her shoulder, secrets glimmering in her eyes. From the window, I watch her meet the boy who elicits both her laughter and her silences.And I wonder... Is love something that lets you escape?Or is it what makes you stay when it’s hardest?How is it that caring for someone can look so much like running away?Holding Francis tight, I think about the ways love shapes us—a gentle hand, a locked door.Downstairs, voices clash and rise—a storm building in the kitchen. Dad’s anger roars, Mom’s words splinter, plates rattle in their cupboards. Then—shattering glass. My heart trips. The world seems to freeze for a suspended second.Mom bursts in, her arm traced with blood, urgency drawn sharp across her composure.“Stay here,” she says, locks the door, and tries to summon a smile.I barely breathe, worry gnawing despite her calm veneer.“Does it hurt?” My voice trembles.“It’s fine, honey. You’re safe. I promise.” Her eyes flicker with rare tenderness—fleeting, but real.But safety in this house is thin. One might say it's see through and always contingent on a closed door.I search for a distraction and find a battered tape player buried beneath old blankets.Huddling with Francis, curiosity budding, I press play. Headphones cushion my ears. Through the static, a woman’s voice—warm, unfamiliar, and achingly gentle, begins.“Hey there, little me…” A voice whispers through the headphones.She speaks of wishes made under stars, of hidden bravery, of the importance of holding on when the world feels too small.Again and again, she calls me “little me,” as if she knows exactly what I need to hear.Sleepiness settles in.“One day, the locked doors will open… Just hold on.”As my eyelids droop, her words linger. Francis soft against my chest, sleep finally arrives—the peace I’d been chasing all day.Just who are you... To say such gentle and assuring words... I can't help but believe you...The tape ends with a final, tender click. In the hush that follows, the world outside falls away.

secret tape from the future???

• ( back )

MOOD BOARD

• ( back )

MEET THE GROUP & CREDITS

profilename : rhema toledorole/s : leader / writerextra : "they say my writing belongs inside an asylum- i say, that's art."

profilename : jannel c. madridrole/s : researcher / concept writerextra : "I want to learn more about literature."

profilename : joseph kallosrole/s : visual researcherextra : "Literature is okay 👍"