He didn’t stir as I dragged him down the hall, his boots leaving a trail of melted snow. I propped him against the wall and opened the basement door. The familiar scent of damp wood and unfinished childhood trauma wafted up to greet me.

  “I hate it down there,” I told him. “Just so we’re clear.”

  He didn’t object.

  “But I sleep there nonetheless.”

  The stairs groaned under our combined weight as I half-carried, half-dragged him down. My muscles screamed. I hadn’t done this much physical activity since that one time I tried hot yoga and nearly passed out in child's pose.

  When we finally made it to the bottom, I collapsed beside him, panting like I’d just scaled Everest.

  “Welcome to my lair,” I huffed. “Please ignore the laundry basket.”

  The only bed was mine. A twin mattress wedged between the heater and a wall of books I swore I’d read someday. I pulled the covers back and stared at the man like he might levitate himself into position.

  “Okay,” I said, clapping once, mostly for my own sanity. “Let’s do this.”

  It took everything in me to get him onto the bed. His body was stiff, but not the rigor mortis kind—more like the deeply exhausted, deeply frozen kind. I pulled the extra blankets from the chair and piled them on top of him. Then I grabbed the small space heater and angled it toward the bed, setting it on low.

  He still hadn’t moved.

  The thought hit me like a sucker punch: What if he doesn’t wake up?

  I dropped to my knees, heart pounding, and checked for a pulse. Still there. Faint. But there. His face was no longer ghost-pale, just sickly pink at the edges. A good sign, I hoped.

  I sat back on my heels and stared at him.

  “What am I doing?”

  I didn’t expect an answer.

  After a minute, I stood and found one of my old jump ropes, the one I hadn’t used since middle school. My hands hesitated, rope halfway to the bedframe.

  “I’m sorry,” I said aloud, mostly to the guilt brewing in my chest.

  I tied one end around the metal leg of the bed and the other around his wrist. Not tight enough to hurt. Just… just enough. Just in case. Because I didn’t know who he was. Because the world didn’t stop being dangerous just because I felt bad for him.

  Once it was done, I turned off the basement light and climbed the stairs. My legs trembled. My head felt full of bees. I closed the basement door gently, as if slamming it might break something fragile inside me.

  I leaned against it, breath catching in my throat.

  You’re fine, Marina. You’re just… harboring a strange man in your basement. Nothing to worry about.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I slid down to the floor and let my forehead rest against my knees.

  I ran my hands through my hair and paced the hallway, looking for some form of sanity, some kind of control. The air in the house felt thick. Too thick.

  Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Jim. Of course. “Stupid, Jim.”

  I pulled it out, ignoring the incoming call. I didn’t feel like explaining why I had a strange man tied up in my basement, no matter how much of an emergency the situation seemed to be.

  I turned the volume off and shoved the phone back in my pocket, leaning against the wall for a second. I needed a moment—just to breathe. A quiet moment without the feeling that my whole world was tilting off its axis.

  A door creaked upstairs. Footsteps—

  I stood frozen in the hallway, listening to the house around me. The footsteps were softer now, but they were still there—still too real. My mind raced, but my feet refused to move.

  It’s just the house settling. It’s just your anxiety.

  But the longer I stood there, the more convinced I became that it wasn’t just the house. The silence felt… wrong. The air in the house, thick and heavy, pressed against my chest.

  I forced myself to step forward, my breath shallow, and moved toward the basement door. I didn’t want to go back down there. I didn’t want to face him again—or myself. But I had to. There was something I couldn’t shake. Something unsettling.

  I gripped the banister at the top of the stairs, my hand slick with sweat. The familiar scent of old wood and musty basement air filled my nostrils. I swallowed hard.

  The footsteps had stopped.

  I could feel it now—the absence of sound. It was like the house had taken a breath, holding its collective exhale, waiting for me to decide what happened next.

  I took a step down, then another. My foot landed on the next step with a soft thud, and I winced, waiting for the sound of creaking, but there was nothing. Just silence.

  The basement door was barely cracked. My fingers trembled as I reached for the knob.

  What was I doing?

  I stood there for a moment, staring at the door, my heart pounding in my chest. My instincts screamed at me to turn back. This isn’t your problem. You don’t have to deal with this. You’re not equipped for this.

  But I opened the door.

  I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. And there he was.

  Still tied to my bed, but upright. His eyes were open, but his chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths. He didn’t look at me as I stood back. Didn’t speak. Didn’t protest.

  I took a step back. Watched him.

  He was still alive. He was still breathing.

  But everything else in me screamed that I wasn’t safe. That I was alone in a basement with a man I knew nothing about.

  I left the room. The basement door clicked shut behind me.

  I stood there for a second, feeling the weight of it all settle into my bones. The guilt. The confusion. The strange connection I felt to someone I shouldn’t have.

  The basement felt colder than I remembered—like it wasn’t mine anymore. Not my bedroom. Maybe it was just the weight of everything pressing on me, but something about the dim lighting and the sterile space made it feel too real—like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing.

  I left the basement door cracked open behind me and stood in the hallway, staring down at the floor. My fingers were still trembling, a sharp reminder that I’d just brought a half-frozen man into my house and tied him to my bed. Like it was just another Tuesday.

  But I couldn’t get rid of that sinking feeling in my gut. The one that said this wasn’t just a guy I’d helped out of a snowstorm.

  I couldn’t explain it, but something about him made me feel like I was crossing a line I shouldn’t have. I didn’t even know his name.

  what do you think Teathered means—and why might it be misspelled on purpose? What's your first impression of Marina? I'd love to know!

  Naniee.