The room was dark, with a damp, musty smell that lingered in the air. Mould clung to the stone walls, and the floor felt gritty beneath Lydia's feet. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light seeping in from the small barred window, casting thin shadows on the rough surfaces. The air was thick, and every breath seemed laboured, making her feel trapped. She had been thrown into this room after the witches had deemed her suspicious, uncertain whether or not she was a witch herself. Now, alone and confused, Lydia's mind raced, trying to make sense of everything.
A voice broke the silence.
"How did you end up here?" It was soft but firm, coming from the far corner of the room. Lydia squinted, barely making out the outline of a figure—a girl, young, with caramel skin that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Her voice was tired but curious. "You look pretty normal."
"I am normal," Lydia replied, her voice shaking slightly, still unsettled by the day's events.
