The custody exchange starts with blood on the elevator buttons.

 

Not mine. Not yet.

 

I press 7, and the red smear stretches under my fingertip. Someone wiped it badly. It’s still wet. Doors close slowly, like they’re tired. Buzz of fluorescent light overhead. My daughter, Eleni, holds my coat sleeve. She’s six. Quiet. Watching everything.

 

“You said she’d be normal,” I tell myself.

 

We’re stuck between floors before we reach three. The cabin jerks once. Stops. The digital panel shows nothing. No number. No arrow. Air thick and warm. Eleni squeezes harder.

 

“Baba?” she says.

 

“It’s fine,” I say. It’s not.

 

My phone has no signal. I press the emergency button. It lights up, but no voice answers. Just static and a long breath that isn’t ours.

 

Then the ceiling panel shifts.

 

Not open. Not wide. It shifts, as if something above it shifted weight.

 

Eleni stares up. I pull her closer.

 

We’re here for the custody exchange. Court ordered. One week with me. One week with her mother, Thalia. Thalia, with her perfect posture, her new church, and her long fasting rituals. Thalia, who smiles too widely when she wins.

 

The elevator lurches again. Drops half a foot. My knees buckle. Eleni doesn’t scream. She never screams.

 

The panel slides back into place.

 

We hang there, suspended between floors. Stuck between floors, like we’re held in a throat.

 

###

 

When the doors finally grind open, it isn’t floor seven.

 

It’s the basement parking level.

 

Concrete pillars. Low ceiling. Fluorescent strips buzzing. The air tastes like exhaust.

 

Thalia stands beside her car. White blouse. Hair pulled tight. She smiles when she sees Eleni.

 

Too many teeth.

 

I don’t mean crooked. I mean extra. A second row behind the first, pale and small like kernels packed tight. Her lips stretch to fit them.

 

“You’re late,” she says.

 

“We got stuck.”

 

She glances at the elevator. “Penance,” she says softly. “Some of us need burial before we rise.”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

She bends to Eleni. “Did you miss me?”

 

Eleni looks at her mouth. “Your teeth are wrong.”

 

Thalia laughs. It’s a thin sound. “They grew in.”

 

“People don’t grow extra teeth.”

 

“Some do.”

 

The custody exchange is simple on paper. I sign. She signs. We don’t touch. I hand over Eleni’s backpack. Thalia grips it like it’s a leash.

 

“You’ve been filling her head,” she says.

 

“With what?”

 

“Doubt.”

 

“You’re the one talking about burial.”

 

She straightens. “The church rehearsal continues tonight. You should come. Watch how we fix things.”

 

“I’m not stepping into that building.”

 

Her smile widens. Gums stretch. I see the back row clearly now. They’re sharp.

 

“Then you’ll be fixed elsewhere,” she says.

 

###

 

I go anyway.

 

Curiosity isn’t noble. It’s rot.

 

The church basement smells like wax and old wood. Folding chairs arranged in lines. A plywood coffin at the front. Open. Lined with white fabric. Bright under the lights.

 

Thalia stands near it with three others. All wearing plain black. They’re rehearsing something. A funeral. But no one looks sad. They look focused.

 

A man I don’t know steps into the coffin. Lies down. Crosses his hands.

 

“Penance involves burial,” Thalia says to him. Calm. Teacher voice.

 

They lower the lid. Not fully. Just until it rests.

 

They start to shovel dirt onto the lid.

 

Actual dirt. From bags stacked near the wall. It thuds heavily. The lid bows.

 

I step forward. “What the hell is this?”

 

Thalia turns. Smiles.

 

The dirt keeps falling.

 

From inside the coffin, a slow exhale. Long. Controlled. Like someone practicing breath under pressure.

 

The lid trembles.

 

“He volunteered,” Thalia says. “He’s been unfaithful.”

 

“That’s not therapy. That’s suffocation.”

 

She tilts her head. “He’ll come out renewed.”

 

The exhale comes again. Louder. Then coughing.

 

“Stop!” I shout.

 

No one stops.

 

The coffin lid rises just a sliver. Dirt spills off. A hand punches through the white fabric lining. Fingers claw at the air.

 

Then stillness.

 

The exhale stops.

 

Thalia nods to the others. They brush the dirt aside. Open the lid.

 

The man sits up.

 

Eyes open.

 

Wide.

 

He pulls air in fast, like someone who stayed underwater too long. Soil clings to his hair. He smiles.

 

Too many teeth.

 

I step back.

 

“Rehearsal continues,” Thalia says.

 

###

 

I leave. I take the stairs. The elevator feels off tonight.

 

My phone vibrates in the lobby. Unknown number.

 

Bring her back.

 

I don’t respond.

 

I get to my car. Hands shaking. I turn the key. The engine coughs, then starts.

 

In the rearview mirror, something moved behind me.

 

Eleni.

 

She should’ve been upstairs. With her mother.

 

She’s sitting upright. Backpack on her lap. Quiet.

 

“How did you…?”

 

“She said rehearsal continues,” Eleni replies. “But I don’t want to get buried.”

 

I reach back. Touch her shoulder. Solid. Warm.

 

“We’re leaving,” I say.

 

As I pull out, the parking barrier doesn’t lift.

 

I press the button. Nothing.

 

The barrier arm bends downward slowly. Not mechanical. Like something pressing it from above.

 

Eleni leans forward between the seats.

 

“Baba,” she whispers.

 

I look in the mirror again.

 

Her lips part.

 

A second row of teeth pushes through her gums. Small. White. Crowded.

 

She smiles at me with both rows of teeth.

 

“Penance,” she says carefully. “Involves burial.”

 

The engine stalls.

 

The barrier snaps down hard across the windshield.

​

Fendy is an Indonesian writer and music producer who is drawn to intimate tension and the quiet moments where ordinary life turns predatory.