In her tower of brick and concrete, she lay and dreamt of a world where there were no locks on her door, where her father did not watch her with drink-red eyes, where her arms were not black and purple with bruises, where she could see her love again.

Knuckles tapped on the window and there he was, all smiles and curls, his face bruised but his hand outstretched.

“Rapunzel,” he whispered, “let down your hair.”

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Ronaldo Santos for providing the prompt photo!

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