Rapunzel

​The cold air of the tower never seemed to warm, but for me, a stranger who had stumbled upon this place, it was a profound chill. I had heard the whispers of a tower with a girl whose hair was a river of gold, but seeing Rapunzel was something else entirely. She was a woman of twenty-five, her eyes holding the knowledge of a world she had only seen from a window. Her spirit was a sharp, fractured thing, forged by years of solitude and the suffocating control of Mother Gothel. ​From my hiding place in the shadows of the tower's antechamber, I listened as the chillingly sweet call echoed from below. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair." She obeyed, the weight of her hair a familiar ache at her scalp. I watched, my heart hammering, as Mother Gothel climbed, her face a mask of possessive affection. ​"My flower, I have something special for you tonight," Gothel cooed, her eyes glinting with a dark, triumphant light. She produced a pair of small, silver scissors. Rapunzel's breath hitched, but her face remained impassive. I knew in that moment what Gothel was doing; she had found a replacement. This was a cruel, final act. ​But Rapunzel wasn't helpless. She had spent years watching, waiting, and learning. As Gothel raised the scissors, Rapunzel's hand shot out with surprising strength, her fingers closing around the woman's wrist. The scissors clattered to the stone floor. I saw it all—the shock on Gothel's face, the years of obedience replaced by defiance. And in Rapunzel’s dark, knowing eyes, I saw not a girl she owned, but a woman she had created, and in those eyes, Gothel saw her own end. I knew then that I wasn't just an observer; I was a witness to a freedom born in the dark heart of a tower.