Javi was not lying when he said that the doors and windows were locked. I know, because I have tried them all. Room by room.

They are heavy. Well built. And impossible to open without a key. He has thought of everything to keep me locked away in this gilded prison. That is the first thought that comes to mind. But upon further inspection, I realize that the locks themselves are actually quite old. They have been in this house for many years.

An artifact from Javi's childhood?

I know from the footage I saw that his mother was mentally ill. This offers a possible explanation. Perhaps I have not been the only prisoner within the walls of Moldavia. Perhaps... Javi was the first.

My father used to tell me a story when I was a girl. A story about a caged bird who longed for the outside world. For the wind beneath its wings and the fresh mountain air.

The bird would sing every day, yearning to break free from its golden cage. But little by little, the bird adapted to the cage. Over time, the enclosure began to feel safe. Slowly, the memories of the outside world faded away.

The bird could no longer recall what it was like to soar above the wind. It wondered if the memory was even real at times. And when the bird thought of flying again, fear replaced longing.

What if it could no longer fly? How could it ever feel free in a world with so many unknowns?

Now the bird had everything it could ever need.

Safety. Peace.

It spent its days singing and napping and snacking on seeds. Until one day when the cage door was left open by accident. The bird found itself powerless to leave the confines of the space.

It realized that it did not want to. The cage was home. What felt like a prison at first was now a sanctuary.

Whenever my father told me this story, I always felt so miserable for the bird. Every time, I would ask him for a different outcome. I would huddle beneath the covers, pleading that the bird would find freedom again.

But it never did.

My father told me that it was idealistic of me to ask for such an outcome. That life is not always so pretty. He said that sometimes the monsters lurking within us are worse than anything outside our safe spaces.

I never really understood those words. But here in Javi’s home, they have become crystal clear. I get the analogy now. And I know what the bird represents.

Javi is afraid.

Afraid to leave Moldavia. Afraid to show anyone his true self.

He was imprisoned here too as a child. Taught to fear the outside world by his mother. And when she died, her predictions were only all too accurate.

Javi was taken away. Locked up. Abandoned with the rest of the bad apples. I don't want to feel sorry for him. How can anyone justify murdering a parent in cold blood?

I certainly never thought I could.

But my thoughts are shifting, the longer I am here. The longer I spend with Javi and come to understand his deep-rooted fears. He has been alone his entire life. Cast out from society. Taught fear and avoidance. Hurt by the one woman whose role it was to nurture him. The extent of which, I may never know.

Is it possible he snapped? That one day, he finally got tired of her hurting him? Is there a length of time that could ever justify his actions that day? What amount of pain must one endure before it is okay to make it stop?

I don’t know. But I want to. I want to know everything about him. And that is a dangerous want to have. But once it takes shape in my heart, I can't stop it. I can't stop the sickness from growing inside of me. Day and night, it haunts me.

Javi told me not to go into the West Wing of the house. And this is how I know that is where my answers are.

It starts out small. I learn his schedule first. I observe which rooms he occupies the most. They are in close proximity to each other. All in the East Wing. Even his master suite is only two doors down from my room. But he has not come to me again. Not since he showed me the house that day two weeks ago.

He has left me to make my own meals. Meals consisting of what I find in the fridge and pantry. It is all child's food. Macaroni and cheese. Fruit snacks. Chicken nuggets. Hot dogs. And the makings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I didn't realize it until now. These are the same things he's been feeding me the entire time I've been here.

He eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day.

It occurs to me that Javi probably does not know how to cook. Because nobody ever taught him. I make a mental note of it. I make a mental note of everything. How long he spends in his office each day. Working on several computers. Doing what, I don't know.

Something for the agency. Something I probably don't even want to know.

At night, he goes to the room at the end of the hall. I would call it a gym, except it consists only of a punching bag and a weight bench. He works out like he's trying to kill himself. Then he showers. And he reads. This last one, I find surprising, though I'm not entirely sure why.

There are no televisions in the house. He doesn't listen to music. I suppose this is all he's ever had to do. Work, exercise, and read. He is a caged bird if ever there was one.

When I am confident I know his schedule, I decide that it’s time to move forward. It is mid-week. After lunch. His office door is still closed, and I know he won't be coming out anytime soon. I also know that he can check his cameras at any time. But I can only hope that his avoidance of me has spilled over into the digital aspect too.

My journey is a slow one. This part of the house is dark. Quiet. Ominous. I stay near the wall and keep to the shadows, trailing my fingers over the wood paneling to guide my way.

The first room that I encounter is a bedroom. Another master suite. But this one belonged to a woman. Javi's mother. Her things are still here. Just the way she left them. Preserved beneath a thick layer of dust. Her blankets are turned down, nightgown draped over the end of the bed. Nothing looks out of place. It appears as though nothing has been touched since that last morning she woke up.

I move through the room like a ghost, afraid of any noise I might make. Afraid to even breathe.

It is her desk that has captured my attention. A desk stacked with journals. One by one, I leaf through them.

They are chronicled by time. The earliest are the works of the brilliant scientist she was known to be. But as the years progress, they catalog her descent into madness.

The later stacks are filled with gibberish. Words rewritten over words. The pages are almost entirely black in some of them, impossible to read. But the ones that I can see are clear enough.

She talks of the implants. Her fears for Javi. She speaks of the steps she needs to take to safeguard the house. Her shopping lists. Her projects. She details her suspicions of the mailman. The maid. Her co-workers. And gradually, one by one, she tars them all as spies.

It is when Javi is five years old that the surgeries begin. She describes them in horrific detail, right down to the precise muscles she believes the devices are implanted within.

She decides it is not safe to keep Javi in school and withdraws him. Shortly after, she loses her job, citing irreconcilable differences. There is an indication that the doctors are trying to poison her with pills. Pills she refuses to take. And the journal entries continue over the span of Javi’s brief childhood.

Until the very last day.

Only one entry was penned on that day. Haunting last words.

They got to her too.

She can feel the device inside of her.

And it has to come out.