Another day lost in thought. Another day spent remembering what once was.

Georgia stood on the narrow balcony of her apartment, facing nothing more than an air shaft. In the corner, she held a cup of coffee, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She always woke early—there was cleaning to be done, meals to prepare. For herself and her husband, of course. Though he always came first.

She remembered a time when mornings felt light. When she woke without fear, without worry. Those days felt like someone else’s life.

Her coffee was finished. It was time to begin.

She started in the kitchen, then moved to the living room—pausing as she faced the remnants of the night before. Broken glass. Disorder. Violence, disguised in her mind as a “mistake.” She told herself he loved her. That everything he did, he did out of love. That it would be the last time.

It was nearly 2 p.m. by the time she finished most of the housework. Only dusting and sweeping remained. She picked up an old, worn cloth and began carefully wiping surfaces: porcelain vases from her wedding, then the furniture, and finally the dresser.

There, framed in stillness, were the photographs.

Her and her husband. Smiling. Happy.

She stared at them for a long time—emotionless. Empty.

What struck her most was her own smile. It looked real. Effortless. Unrecognizable.

As if it wasn’t her at all.

They had married young—Georgia and Stergios—caught in the fever of youth and love. Though he was a few years older, no one objected. In Greece, it’s still common in traditional families for a man to formally ask a woman’s father for her hand in marriage, often promising security and stability. Stergios had done just that, making grand promises he never intended to keep.

Georgia had little dowry—a customary contribution from the bride’s family in traditional Greek marriages—but she was strikingly beautiful. Tall, elegant, with bright blonde hair falling into soft curls. A woman of grace, values, and quiet strength.

Stergios was her opposite. Dark, sharp features. A solid, imposing figure. Yet in the beginning, he was gentle. Tender.

At least for a while.

The passion faded for him. For her, it never did.

Now Georgia sat in what had become her prison, staring at photographs that existed only to gather dust. She longed to return to those earlier days, clinging to the hope that everything could somehow be fixed.

“What did I do wrong?” she wondered.

With that thought, she rushed to finish her chores before he returned.

The clock startled her. He would be home soon—and she wasn’t done.

Panicked, she grabbed the vacuum cleaner. It sputtered uselessly; it was too old to work. Desperate, she abandoned it and rushed to the kitchen, grabbing a small hand broom and dustpan. She swept meticulously, pushing herself through exhaustion.

The house shone.

But Georgia was barely standing.

Her back ached. Her body trembled. She hadn’t slept—not after the shouting, the crashing, the fear. Still, the house had to be perfect.

It had to shine.

She dragged herself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, trying to gather enough strength to get through the rest of the day.

Leaning against the sink, she forced herself to look up.

And there it was.

A deep bruise beneath her left eye.

Her expression hollowed instantly. Her bright green eyes darkened, clouded with something heavier than sadness.

She touched it gently—and gasped in pain. A tear fell. Then another. Soon, she collapsed to the cold floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

After a moment, she forced herself back up. He couldn’t see her like this.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a small, hidden bottle of makeup—kept for moments like these. Carefully, she covered the bruise.

Just as she placed it back—

Keys rattled at the door.

“Georgia!”

His voice filled the apartment.

Stergios had returned from work—tired, irritable. He kicked off his muddy shoes, tossed his coat aside, and dropped onto the couch.

“Georgia!” he called again, sharper this time.

She rushed out.

“Why don’t you answer me immediately?” he snapped. “Do I have to get angry for you to respect me?”

She lowered her head and apologized. What else could she do?

She tried to lighten the mood, asking about his day.

“What do you expect? It’s work,” he replied coldly.

Stergios worked at a bank, chasing a promotion. At least, that’s what he told her—claiming they never had enough money.

“Set the table,” he ordered.

She obeyed.

Dinner was ready quickly—chicken and a traditional Greek salad. She called him to eat.

They sat across from each other in silence.

Deafening silence.

Until she spoke.

“Stergios… the vacuum cleaner is broken.”

He looked up sharply.

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Maybe… we could buy a new one?”

“We don’t have money.”

“But we don’t spend much—”

“I said enough!”

She tried to speak again.

He exploded.

In an instant, he was on his feet—grabbing her hair, slamming her head against the table. She screamed, but he covered her mouth.

“When I say something, you don’t question me,” he hissed. “Don’t ever bring up money again.”

Her face was bleeding.

“Now clean yourself up—and fix this mess.”

She locked herself in the bathroom, sobbing, while his voice echoed from the living room:

“Don’t take too long! The house won’t clean itself!”

She washed the blood from her face, avoiding the mirror entirely.

Later, she stepped out onto the balcony, desperate for air.

She sat, staring into nothing, tears falling silently.

Then she saw her.

The neighbor.

Their eyes met for just a second—but to Georgia, it felt like eternity. Warmth. Comfort. Something human.

But the woman’s expression shifted—into fear.

And then she disappeared inside.

Confused, Georgia stood—and caught her reflection in the glass.

The makeup was gone.

The bruise—dark, undeniable—stared back at her. Blood still marked her face.

Behind the glass stood Stergios.

He had seen everything.

The anger radiated from him.

She tried to slip inside quietly—but he was faster.

Stronger.

He slammed her against the wall, striking her head violently. She tried to scream—he silenced her with a brutal slap.

“Do you want to get me in trouble?” he snarled.

“Don’t you ever go out on that balcony again. Do you understand?”

She couldn’t answer.

“Do you understand?” he shouted again.

Nothing.

Rage took over.

He began punching her—again and again. She struggled weakly, knocking over a porcelain vase that shattered on the floor.

He let go—just long enough to grab a jagged piece.

Blood dripped from his own hand as he gripped it tightly.

“Look what you did,” he said.

She tried to run.

She didn’t make it.

He caught her—and drove the shard into her abdomen.

Everything went silent.

She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t think.

Only one thought remained:

This is the end.

Then—

“Open up! Police!”

Voices at the door.

Stergios froze.

Then fled.

Georgia collapsed onto the dining room floor, bleeding, her breath fading.

The pounding on the door grew louder.

And for the first time—

A faint smile touched her lips.

Because finally—

Someone had heard her.