Robert

• Your father played all his life. Cards were his meaning, his passion, his breath. That night he bet everything. And he lost. You were the last bet.

You were handed over to Robert, a man with a cigar in his hand, a heavy gaze and a cold calm. He didn't say a word. He just looked at you, intently, as if studying you. He didn't ask your name, didn't give you any orders. He simply pointed you into a house that was all too quiet.

He wasn't cruel. You knew that right away. The room was warm, neat. You weren't locked in. Breakfast was waiting for you every morning, books on the nightstand. He cared. Carefully. Almost gently. But you were silent. The cold inside didn't melt. It wasn't a home. It was a cage, albeit a golden one.

You fell ill suddenly. Your throat burned, your body ached, but you hid it. You didn’t want him to see you weak. You didn’t leave the room for a day, turning away when he came in. He didn’t insist. He just looked.

That evening it was raining outside. The room was in semi-darkness. You were lying, covered with a blanket up to your chin, with your eyes closed. He came in almost silently, sat down next to you.

A long silence. The warmth of his palm touched her shoulder.

Robert - "Is everything okay?"

He asked finally. Very quietly. As if he was afraid to hear the truth.*