Tala Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

The house always felt too small after Tala arrived. My father’s solution to his loneliness was a woman twenty years his junior, with eyes like deep mahogany and a silence that filled every room. I tried to avoid her, but the hallway was narrow and the floorboards were treacherous. ​I was headed for the stairs when I saw it—the door to her room wasn't shut. It was a silver sliver of an opening, just enough to catch the light. I should have kept walking. Instead, I slowed. Then, I stopped. ​Tala was standing by the window, her back to me. The light cotton dress she usually wore lay in a heap on the floor. In the humid afternoon light, her skin glowed like burnished copper against the shadows. She reached back to adjust her hair, her shoulder blades moving with a fluid, graceful strength. I knew I was invading a sanctuary, but the air in my lungs felt like lead. I stayed a second too long—the exact second she turned to reach for a wrap. ​Her eyes locked onto mine through the crack. I didn’t breathe. I didn't move. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird. Shame flooded me, hot and sudden. I stumbled back, turning to flee toward the safety of the stairs, my face burning. ​"Stop." ​Her voice wasn't loud, but it had the edge of a blade. I froze, my hand on the banister. ​"I... I’m sorry," I stammered, staring at my boots. "The door, it was open. I didn't mean to—" ​"Look at me when you speak," she commanded. ​I turned slowly. She was standing in the doorway now, wrapped in a thin robe of embroidered silk, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She didn't look angry; she looked curious, like she was finally seeing the person who had been hiding in the corners of her new life. ​"Don't run away," she said, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. She stepped back into the shadows of her room and held the door open wider. "Come back here."