His Perfect Lyra

Lyra's POV 

By the time dinner came, it was the last box.

I stood there, staring at it, already wondering—

What next?

What else could he mess with now?

I walked to the table, opened the box…

And froze.

Inside was a small photo.

A picture of me.

No—of teenage me.

Wearing a school uniform.

Holding a trophy like I'd just won some biology project.

An older teacher standing next to me.

Background… somewhere outside.

But I didn't recognize the place.

I looked so happy in that photo.

And now?

Now I was here.

Trapped.

Living under his rules.

What was he trying to tell me with this photo?

What did it mean?

No matter how hard I stared at it…

Nothing came to mind.

No memories.

Why?

Did he do something to me that I don't even know about?

And before I could figure it out…

Two months passed.

The days stopped feeling separate.

Notes appeared. I obeyed.

Silas appeared. I obeyed.

Every time he came, it wasn't casual.

It wasn't gentle.

His movements were strict.

Precise.

Hands adjusting my posture without a word.

Tilting my chin up.

Fixing my hair.

Straightening my clothes.

"Sit up straight," he'd say.

"Keep your eyes forward."

"Hold your fork correctly. Again."

No softness. No praise.

Just constant correction.

Through time… I stopped resisting.

Maybe because my mind got used to it.

Maybe because fighting felt useless.

And I hated myself for that.

But there were things I noticed.

He never forced himself on me.

Never touched me in a way he shouldn't.

Always cold. Always controlled.

And still—

I didn't know why I was here.

Who he really was.

Or who I was.

But I asked him questions.

Sometimes.

And I learned a few things.

My name is Lyra.

No question about it, like he said.

So I just accepted it.

My birthday is December 22nd.

My age… late twenties.

He said I'm "very original."

But in his eyes, I'm special.

That's all I know.

No city name.

No date.

No year.

No job.

Nothing that explained who I worked hard to become before all this.

Well—

Not this me.

I meant the past me.

Now… I didn't need his notes anymore.

Or his corrections.

I'd memorized it all.

Morning:

I'd already be dressed.

Hair done.

Teeth brushed.

Nails neat.

I'd say "Good morning,"

Pray.

Eat.

Follow whatever activities he brought: a movie, a puzzle, quiet tasks.

Dinner.

Then bed.

Repeat.

That was the cycle.

But one night…

I waited for him to unlock the chain.

So I could shower. Change clothes.

But he didn't move.

He just sat at the table.

Since lunch.

Still staring at that photo.

The one from the purple box.

Why was he staring at it so much?

That was creepy.

I was right here.

Finally… he looked at me.

He stood up slowly.

Walked over.

Sat on my bed.

And patted the spot next to him.

I sat down.

Kept my eyes on his.

"What do you see different between this photo and you now?"

His voice was cold. Completely flat.

Different…?

I didn't know what answer he wanted.

Age?

Identity?

What was he really asking?

"I… don't know," I said, as carefully as I could.

His eyes got colder.

"Your smile," he said.

"I want to see your smile."

He looked back down at the photo in his hand.

And my stomach dropped.

This wasn't good.