Elena waited at the coffee shop, her fingers curled around a warm cup of chamomile tea. The chatter around her faded into background noise. She kept her eyes on the door, tapping her foot nervously under the table. When Brenda walked in, Elena's breath caught in her throat.
Brenda looked different — almost like a ghost of herself. Her face was bare, no trace of her usual makeup or carefully drawn eyeliner. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her clothes simple and crumpled, like she hadn't changed out of them in days. She looked hollow.
They greeted each other quietly. No hugs. No smiles. Just an exchange of glances heavy with years of history and something darker that now hovered between them.
"Hey," Brenda said, sliding into the chair across from Elena.
Elena only nodded and reached for her tea again, giving Brenda the space to begin.
For a long while, they sat in silence. Brenda stared at her coffee, untouched, her hands trembling slightly. Elena didn't push. Something deep inside told her to be gentle.
Finally, Brenda looked up, her eyes red and glassy. "I need to tell you the truth."
Elena's heart pounded. "Okay."
Brenda inhaled shakily, then began. "That night at the club... I didn't bring you there just for fun."
Elena blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I was paid. By the manager of the club." Brenda's voice cracked. "I was supposed to bring you in. They wanted you to be part of something — some kind of system they have. It's not just a club, Elena. It's a place where the rich and ultra-rich place bets. On people."
Elena sat motionless, confusion washing over her. "Bets?"
Brenda nodded slowly. "You were part of a... game. One where people place bets on outcomes. Who falls. Who breaks. Who wins."
Elena's throat went dry. "What kind of outcome were they betting on me for?"
Brenda looked away, shame flooding her face. "Some rich guy — he paid me extra. He wanted you to sign a few papers that night. Said it was just standard procedure for new girls. Affiliates contract, I think he called it."
Elena's brow furrowed. "What papers?"
Brenda hesitated, and then, almost in a whisper, said, "It wasn't a club contract. It was a marriage contract."
Elena recoiled, stunned. "A marriage contract?! What the hell are you talking about?"
Brenda's voice trembled. "He needed someone to marry him on paper. For some legal loophole, or maybe to access a trust. I don't know the full story. But if he could prove a legal marriage, he'd win a hundred million dollars. You were just supposed to be the paper wife. You weren't supposed to find out. He said you'd be taken care of."
Elena felt her vision blur. The weight she had carried for weeks—like a cloak sewn from thorns — wrapped around her once more. All the strange occurrences. The way she'd felt watched. Used. Off-balanced. It suddenly made sense. The fog that had clouded her mind, the feeling that her choices weren't truly hers.
"I didn't know it would hurt you like this," Brenda said, her voice cracking. "I just needed the money. I was drowning. You know how hard it's been."
Tears spilled down Elena's cheeks. "You were my friend."
"I know," Brenda whispered. "And I betrayed you."
Elena stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She couldn't stay another second.
Without another word, she walked out of the coffee shop. The air outside was stifling, the sun too bright, the streets too loud. Elena wandered blindly, her tears falling freely, her chest aching with a grief she couldn't name. Her legs carried her home, but everything felt numb — like her soul had slipped out of her body and was watching her from above.
That night, Elena curled into herself beneath her blanket. Her cries were soft, but they carried through the darkness like a prayer. Her room became a sanctuary of silence, broken only by the occasional sound of her pacing, the toilet flushing, or the fridge door opening and closing. She barely ate. She barely breathed.
Days blurred into one another. Her phone remained untouched. The outside world could wait.
But something deep within stirred again — like a whisper from her spirit, reminding her of the old village healer. The one place that hadn't lied to her. The one woman who looked at her and saw through the layers of confusion and pain.
Elena dragged herself out of bed. She didn't bother brushing her hair or fixing her face. There was no one to impress. Only someone to be honest with.
When she arrived at the healer's home, the same cluster of people were seated in the garden, waiting. The air smelled of burning herbs and crushed leaves. Elena quietly took a seat on the mat across from the old woman.
The healer's face lit up with a faint smile, as if she'd been expecting her.
"Are you ready," she asked, "to untangle the cords that have been holding you back?"
Elena looked into the old woman's eyes — deep, knowing, ancient — and nodded. "Yes. I'm ready."
And so began her process.
For the next few weeks, Elena never missed an appointment. Every Tuesday and Friday, she returned. The sessions weren't always easy. At first, they were filled with tears. The healer spoke little, instead guiding her through rituals of remembrance. Teaching her how to sit still, how to scan her body for unseen threads—those invisible strings that had tied her to past choices, manipulations, and illusions.
"You can feel them," the old woman said one afternoon. "Those threads that were never yours to carry. Contracts made in silence. Promises made in fear."
She learned to breathe differently. To sit with discomfort. To name her pain.
But the real shift came when the healer gave her a task.
"There is a group of children here in the village," the old woman said one misty morning. "They could use someone to guide them. Teach them how to create, how to express. After school. Only an hour or two."
Elena blinked. "You want me to teach?"
The healer nodded. "It will help you remember who you were before the weight. Before the lies."
At first, she was hesitant. What could she possibly offer?
But the first time she sat with the children — showing them how to draw with charcoal, how to make color from leaves and petals — something shifted. She laughed. Genuinely. She smiled when a little girl tugged on her sleeve and showed her a painting of a sun that had arms.
Each session became a ritual of return. To her innocence. To her power. And to her joy.
Unbeknownst to her, the healer had mapped out nine Tuesdays and nine Fridays — a sacred window of healing.
Each lesson brought a deeper teaching.
First Tuesday: Trust your own breath.
First Friday: Learn to see with your skin, not just your eyes.
Second Tuesday: What has been tied can be untied.
Second Friday: What was stolen can be called back.
By the fifth week, Elena felt her feet on the ground in a new way. Her shoulders, once hunched and heavy, relaxed. Her voice had a different tone — more rooted. She laughed more often. She began journaling again. Her sleep was no longer haunted.
One day, after a particularly powerful session, the healer said, "You are beginning to see the system."
Elena looked up. "What do you mean?"
"The invisible one. The one that feeds on our silence, our confusion. They tie threads around our souls so we forget. But now you remember."
Elena nodded slowly. She was beginning to understand. This wasn't just about her. There were systems that thrived off manipulation. Contracts written in the dark. Agreements made through deceit. Her story was just one of many.
But now, she was learning how to survive them.
How to break them.
And perhaps, how to lead others out, too.