Son compartido

Lena learned the house rules her first night: don’t ask questions, don’t make noise, don’t expect kindness. The family called it “structure.” She called it weather—cold and constant. They measured her by chores done and words not spoken. If she laughed too loud, the TV clicked off. If she lingered, a finger tapped the clock. She grew smaller without moving an inch. But Lena had a talent no one noticed: she remembered everything. Dates the pantry went empty. The back door that stuck in humidit