Morning always came too early in Catherina's house.
Not because the sun rose quickly but because silence never lasted long enough.
She was awake before the first call. She always was.
Lying still on her narrow bed, she watched the ceiling as pale light crept through the thin curtains, stretching slowly across the cracked paint above her. For a moment, just a moment, everything felt suspended. No voices. No footsteps. No expectations.
Just quiet.
Catherina held onto it the way one holds onto the last seconds of a fading dream.
Then—
"Catherina!"
Her mother's voice cut through the house, sharp and immediate, as though it had been waiting just outside her door.
She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling through her nose before sitting up.
"Yes, Ma," she called, already pushing the blanket aside.
There was no reply. There never was. The call was not a conversation, it was a command.
Her feet met the cold floor, and she moved quickly, tying her hair back with practiced hands. The mirror by her dresser caught her reflection, but she didn't look for long. There was nothing there she hadn't already memorized, nothing she particularly wanted to see.
By the time she stepped into the hallway, the house had come alive.
The clatter of plates. The hum of voices. A door slamming somewhere. Her younger brother's laughter, loud, careless, unburdened.
Catherina moved through it all like a shadow.
"Why are you just coming out now?" her mother said the moment she entered the kitchen, not looking at her. "Look at the time."
Catherina glanced at the clock. It was barely past six.
"I woke up early," she said quietly, reaching for the kettle.
"Then why is the water not boiling?" her mother snapped, finally turning. "Must I say everything before you do it?"
"I'm sorry."
The words came automatically. Soft. Familiar. Worn.
Her mother sighed, already turning away. "Sorry doesn't do the work."
Catherina nodded, even though her mother wasn't looking anymore. She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and began moving around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, washing, arranging, preparing.
No one asked her to. It was simply understood.
Her sister breezed in a few minutes later, humming to herself, her phone in hand. She leaned against the counter, scrolling lazily.
"Mummy, I'm going out after school today," she said.
Her mother's tone shifted instantly. "Where to?"
"Just with friends."
"Alright. Don't stay too late."
Catherina's hands paused briefly over the sink.
No questions. No correction. No irritation.
Just… alright.
Her brother followed soon after, grabbing bread straight from the table.
"Hey!" their mother called, but there was laughter in her voice this time. "Use a plate at least."
He grinned, unfazed.
Catherina returned to scrubbing the dishes, the rhythm steady, almost mechanical. Water ran over her fingers, warm at first, then gradually cooling. She didn't notice.
Or maybe she did but didn't care enough to react.
"Catherina," her mother said again.
"Yes, Ma."
"Make sure your brother's uniform is ironed."
"I did it last night."
A brief pause.
"Hmm."
No acknowledgment. Just a shift to the next instruction.
"And sweep the front before you leave."
"I will."
Her sister sighed dramatically. "Why does she always have to do everything?"
Catherina's grip tightened slightly on the plate she was holding.
"She's the eldest," her mother replied simply.
That was all.
The explanation. The expectation. The sentence.
Catherina said nothing.
By the time she stepped out of the house, the sun had fully risen, casting a warm glow over the quiet street. Children in uniforms walked in small groups, their voices filling the air with laughter and unfinished conversations.
Catherina walked alone.
Her bag hung neatly over her shoulder, her steps measured and steady. She kept her eyes forward, her pace consistent, neither too fast nor too slow.
Invisible, but not suspicious.
She had learned that balance over time.
At the gate, her brother caught up with her, still chewing something.
"You're walking slow," he said.
"I'm not."
"You always do."
She didn't argue.
He shrugged and moved ahead, quickly joining a group of boys down the street. Within seconds, he was laughing, his voice blending easily into theirs.
Catherina watched for a moment, then looked away.
She continued walking.
School was no different.
The classroom buzzed with energy, chairs scraping, voices overlapping, books opening and closing. Catherina slipped into her seat near the window, unnoticed.
She preferred it that way.
"Good morning," the teacher said as she entered.
"Good morning, ma," the class responded in unison.
Catherina's voice was there, somewhere in the middle. Not loud. Not soft. Just… there.
Lessons began. Notes were written. Questions were asked.
Catherina answered when called upon, and she was called upon often enough. She was good at remembering things. Good at organizing her thoughts. Good at getting it right.
"Correct," the teacher said after one of her answers, nodding briefly.
The class moved on.
No lingering praise. No attention drawn.
Just correct.
Catherina lowered her gaze back to her notebook, her pen moving steadily across the page.
She didn't mind.
Or at least, she had told herself she didn't.
At break time, the classroom emptied quickly, students spilling into the corridors and courtyard in clusters of laughter and movement.
Catherina remained at her desk.
She opened her lunch slowly, taking small bites, her eyes drifting occasionally to the window. Outside, groups had already formed, friends leaning into each other, sharing stories, trading snacks.
She watched them the way one watches a distant scene through glass.
Close enough to see.
Too far to feel.
A voice broke through her thoughts.
"You're always alone."
Catherina looked up.
A girl stood beside her desk, someone from her class. Not a close friend. Not a stranger either.
Just someone who had noticed.
Catherina hesitated. "I'm not always alone."
The girl tilted her head slightly, as if considering that.
"Do you like it?"
The question lingered.
Catherina opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She wasn't sure.
The girl gave a small shrug. "I'd get bored."
Catherina nodded faintly, though she wasn't sure why.
"Anyway," the girl said, already stepping back. "See you."
And just like that, she was gone—pulled back into the world Catherina stood just outside of.
Catherina looked down at her food again.
The appetite she had was gone.
That evening, the house was loud again.
Voices overlapped. Instructions were given. Mistakes were pointed out.
Catherina moved through it all the same way she always did, quiet, careful, attentive.
Present, but never quite seen.
Later, when the house finally settled and the noise faded into the background, she returned to her room.
The same room.
The same walls.
The same ceiling staring back at her.
She lay down slowly, her body tired in a way that sleep didn't always fix.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just stared.
Then, almost without thinking, she whispered into the quiet:
"Is this how it's always going to be?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, soft, rhythmic, almost unnoticeable unless you were listening for it.
Catherina listened.
And for the first time, the silence didn't feel peaceful.
It felt heavy.
Like something waiting.