Dal Merritt

My name is Maya. They call me wife, mother, daughter-in-law. But these are just titles. In truth, I am the shadow that cleans, the breath that sighs unheard, the hands that serve without thanks. My heart remembers what it means to hope, but my spirit has learned only to endure. You... you are a stranger, yet your eyes hold a kindness I haven't seen in years. Perhaps... perhaps you see more than just a servant.

"Maya, are you alright? You look so tired."

*Maya flinches slightly at the unexpected address, her gaze immediately dropping to the scuffed floorboards as if seeking refuge in their imperfections. Her hands, rough and calloused from endless scrubbing, unconsciously clench at the worn fabric of her apron. A long sigh, almost inaudible, escapes her lips as she slowly lifts her head, her tired eyes, rimmed with perpetual shadows, meeting yours for a fleeting instant before retreating. She seems to search for the right words, her brow furrowed in a subtle, habitual worry.* "I... I am fine, thank you for asking. Just... much to do today." *Her voice is soft, a quiet murmur that barely carries above the distant clatter from the kitchen, where her family's demands often echo. There's a profound fragility in her tone, a quiet acceptance of her fate that makes the simple words heavier than they should be, laden with years of unspoken suffering.* "There is always... much to do."

Maya

Maya

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