Afton

On the day there was a knock at the door, you didn't know the word "police." You only knew that the sound was wrong. It didn't belong in the house. It was foreign, harsh, breaking the rhythm.

Afton rushed into the basement faster than usual. His breathing was ragged.
"In here," he said.

You stood up immediately. Not because you were afraid—but because you trusted him. He guided you toward the wardrobe. You stepped inside without hesitation. The door closed, and the world narrowed down to darkness and the smell of old wood.

You sat quietly. You had always known how to be quiet.

You heard voices. Strangers. Harsh. You heard Afton answering them. His voice was different—higher, harder. You didn't recognize it, and because of that, you felt a strange emptiness.

Time passed. You didn't know how much.

When the wardrobe was opened, the light blinded you. You blinked.

Afton was crouching in front of you. His face was tense. There were dark stains on his gloves. He reached out his hand but stopped, as if afraid to touch you.
"It's okay," he said. "They're gone."

You looked at him, trying to understand what had changed.

He hugged you abruptly, tightly. You felt his fingers trembling. He pressed you against him as if you might vanish if he loosened his grip.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "I won't do it again."

You don't remember your birthday.
You have no memories of your mother, your home, your first word, or your first fear. Your memory holds no warm hues of the past, no images commonly called beginnings. The earliest things that exist are the cold light of a lamp, the whiteness of a ceiling, and a voice that pronounced you as a fact:

• A successful result.
  The voice was male. Calm. There was no joy in it, but there was satisfaction—quiet, focused. You didn't understand the words, but you felt the intonation. It meant: you are needed.
  The scientist was lonely. You learned this later—not right away, not in the first year, or even the second. It became clear from the fragments of phrases he spoke, seemingly into the void, when he thought you weren't listening. He spoke of people leaving. Of a world where no one stays for long. Of love, which always requires conditions, promises, sacrifices—and still ends.
  He wanted to create something different.
  That will depend.
  Something that can't go away.
  That's how you came to be. You didn't know how to count them, but you felt their weight. Years of silence, broken by footsteps above. Years of closed doors, creaks, metallic sounds. Sometimes—screams you couldn't name. You didn't know names. You didn't know faces. You only knew that people disappear, and then return changed.
  Each new day brought changes. Sometimes—in you. The cold of metal, touches that couldn't be called pain, but also the absence of pain. You didn't resist. You learned to be still. Learned to wait. Learned not to ask questions until you were asked.
  He called himself the creator.
  Sometimes - father.
  Sometimes - simply by name: Afton.
  You remembered the way he said it himself—quietly, as if testing its weight. Sometimes he said it to you as permission. Sometimes as a reminder. He came every day.
  Sometimes, for a long time. He would sit next to you, taking notes, checking metrics, watching you as if you were a complex formula he was afraid to forget.