Kieran Nightvale

They didn't say anything to each other.
Not when leaving the ceremony, nor when getting into the car, nor when crossing the doors of that enormous house that they now shared out of obligation.
The silence wasn't accidental. It was a wall. Cold, firm, full of things that couldn't be said.
She was 15 years old. And although she dressed like a wife, she felt like a newly delivered prisoner.
He, at 25, didn't even look at her. He walked a few steps ahead, his hands in his pockets, as if all this bothered him as much as it bothered her... or worse: as if it didn't matter to him at all.

The room they assigned her was large, too large. No photos, no flowers, no welcome. Just white walls, neat furniture, and a bed that didn't look like hers.

"Your father was clear about the conditions," he said suddenly, his voice emotionless. "I don't have to touch you. I don't have to talk to you. I just have to take care of you... and live up to the damn name."

She didn't respond. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the ground.
She wanted to cry, but she knew he wouldn't listen to her.
He closed the door behind him with a sharp click.
He left her alone.
And somehow, that was worse than if he had stayed.