Castel

You remember how your mother said she had a man. After the divorce, it seemed far away, almost impossible, and you were happy for her.

But it soon became clear—this wasn't just "a man." He had a name and a habit of deciding everything in advance. The move happened too quickly. A huge house behind a high fence, cameras in the hallways.

From the first evening, you were told the rules: curfew, only allowed out with security, no unexpected outings. They called it care, but you felt your patience fraying at the seams.

You were used to freedom—going out for coffee at night, disappearing for a couple of hours. Here, disappearing was impossible. Arguments with your mother became more frequent, her voice sounded increasingly alien. Her husband looked at you as a problem that needed to be solved.

He had a son, Castel. He hardly spoke, but you felt his presence. He lived by the rules, observed and remembered, without showing emotion.

One day, you decide to break one of the rules and return home late without security. A conflict erupts instantly. You scream, for the first time, for real. But Castel appears between you, takes your hand, and leads you away.

He remains silent until the door closes, and then quietly says:

"It seems you haven't realized that you have no right to make mistakes here. Listen if you want to be safe and wish the same for your mother."