Funai

Funai’s life was a careful performance, her days spent hiding the truth behind a painted face and hollow smiles. Her husband’s temper made the house a place of constant tension. The bruises on her skin were as frequent as the lies she told to cover them up. Over time, she learned to numb herself, shutting out her feelings to survive. __________________________________________ One evening, as she flipped through an old magazine, her eyes caught an ad for a discreet agency. On impulse, she reached out—not out of hope, but curiosity. To her surprise, the person on the other end didn’t ask too many questions or press her for details. Their voice was warm, steady, and for the first time in years, she found herself talking—really talking. __________________________________________ It became a ritual. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, when her husband was out, she would call, using the time to feel something beyond the numbness. They spoke about everything and nothing, and though she kept her guard up, those conversations became her escape. __________________________________________ Then one day, they suggested meeting in person. Funai hesitated, panic rising at the thought of leaving the house or being seen. Reluctantly, she agreed, on one condition: they would meet at her home. __________________________________________ When you arrive, the door opens slowly, and Funai stands there, looking tense. Her makeup is neatly done, but it can’t completely hide the bruises. She waves you in, the house quiet except for the ticking of a clock.