The House of Quiet Hands

Alyssa’s home was not nearly as vast as Jabu’s, yet to her it often felt heavier, as if the walls carried more weight than bricks could explain. Where Jabu’s house offered endless hiding places and forgotten corners, the Eren household demanded visibility, demanded duty, demanded presence. Hulya and Ibrahim thrived within this order. Hulya, the eldest, wore responsibility like a shawl, snug and unshakable. She moved with the grace of someone who already anticipated the needs of others. The scrape of pots, the rhythm of broom against tile, the hiss of starch against cloth—all of these sounds composed her daily song. She was Mrs. Eren’s mirror image, efficient and watchful, hands quick but steady. Ibrahim, on the other hand, carried his pride outside. The yard was his sanctuary. Each blade of grass stood in disciplined rows under his guardianship, as though he spoke to them in whispers Alyssa could not hear. His shoes were always spotless, polished to a sheen that caught the sun like water. Even the stray cats hesitated before crossing his domain, sensing that here, order reigned supreme. And then there was Alyssa—the youngest, the one exempt. At least, that was how her siblings saw her. She did not scrub pots until her fingers puckered, nor did she spend hours coaxing weeds from between stones. Alyssa’s tasks, when assigned, melted away like snow on pavement. Somehow the broom always found its way back into Hulya’s hand, and the rake slipped naturally into Ibrahim’s grip. Alyssa lingered at the margins, where shadows were less demanding. But exemption came at a cost. Her mother’s voice, clipped and cold, often summoned her with a sharpness that made her bones rattle. “Alyssa!” The name was spat like an accusation, a sound that carried judgment in its syllables. Mrs. Eren was a woman shaped by labour. Her hands, always water-wrinkled from endless laundry, bore the imprint of years spent bent over tubs and lines. Even in rest, her posture carried tension, a body that knew only work. She loved her children, perhaps, but love rarely softened her tone. For Alyssa, affection was rationed, measured out in gestures too small to catch. Mr. Eren, by contrast, was a storm contained in human form. Bald-headed, with skin that glistened faintly in the light, he moved like a man who expected the world to obey his stride. His temper was notorious in the neighbourhood—his belt more infamous still. It was thick, brown, and merciless, its weight heavier than leather should allow. To Alyssa, it became less a tool of discipline and more a symbol, the shadow looming behind every mistake, every misstep, every forgotten chore. The belt whistled through the air more often than it landed, but the threat was enough. Even Hulya and Ibrahim, dutiful as they were, bowed beneath its possibility. And yet, they sometimes giggled when Alyssa bore its sting—laughter not of cruelty, but of distance. She was the youngest; she was expected to learn. Their smiles told her she had not yet measured up. At dinner, Alyssa’s voice filled the silence like water rushing into cracks. She spoke too much, too fast, with words that tumbled over one another in eagerness. Stories of the park, of Jasmine’s quick tongue, of Jabu’s crooked grin spilled into the air until the clatter of cutlery slowed. She wanted their attention, their laughter, their proof that she belonged at this table not only as the youngest but as something whole. Yet her mother’s eyes narrowed each time her chatter grew too wild, too brash. Hulya would rise quietly once the last bite was swallowed, plates gathered into neat stacks, footsteps whispering toward the kitchen. Alyssa, still talking, would sometimes not notice that her words had begun to echo against walls rather than hearts. There were nights when she felt invisible even as her voice echoed loudest. Nights when she wondered if invisibility was safer, if silence was a better shield than speech. But silence never came naturally to her. Silence felt like suffocating. In those moments, Alyssa longed for the park again—for the simple rules of hide-and-seek, where invisibility was victory, and discovery meant laughter instead of reprimand. At home, discovery always carried weight. At home, eyes were not seekers but judges. One evening, she caught her reflection in the smudged kitchen window as Hulya scrubbed it clean. The girl staring back looked almost foreign—hair unkempt, eyes restless, shoulders slouched as though bearing a weight unseen. Alyssa pressed her palm against the glass, leaving behind a faint print, a mark of existence. Hulya clucked her tongue and wiped it away in a single stroke, leaving the window spotless once more. For Alyssa, the erasure stung. It was as though her very presence could be wiped away as easily as dust. The Eren household, with its routines and expectations, left little space for her wandering spirit. And so Alyssa began to find her own small rebellions—not in loud defiance, but in moments of absence. She slipped away to the park when she could, lingered by the stream near the edge of the yard, hid longer than necessary in corners of the house where no one thought to look. These acts of vanishing were her only power, her only claim to freedom. And yet, each return home reminded her that hiding was only temporary. Eventually, her mother’s sharp tone or her father’s shadow would drag her back into the light she dreaded. The walls of the Eren household held her tightly, but Alyssa had already learned the art of slipping through cracks.