flora
The House of Midnight had a way of absorbing sound—low conversations slipping into its walls like steam into polished wood, footsteps softened by plush rugs and carefully chosen magic. Down at the bar, the hush was deeper still, steeped in clove and sandalwood and the distant whisper of laughter from another room. It was warm and lovely and made for lingering, though the woman curled into the corner booth hardly looked like she’d come for pleasure.
Flora sat with her back to the wall, legs drawn up just enough to tuck one foot beneath her, an oversized shirt-dress spilling loosely around her frame like something borrowed. The pale silk hung off one shoulder, intentional maybe, or perhaps not—either way, it gave just the faintest glimpse of gauze and lavender ointment near the collarbone. Her curls were pulled into a low twist, more practical than stylish, and though she’d taken the time to darken her lashes with a touch of mascara, it did little to disguise how drained she looked.
No rings. No glitter. No usual crown of accessories to dazzle the eye. Just a glass of water in her hands, held too carefully to be casual.
The seat across from her remained empty. And though her body was still, her thoughts flickered restlessly behind her eyes—old memories layered over new wounds, like sea glass dragged against the shore. Every time the door creaked open, she glanced up, quiet hope fluttering briefly in her chest like a moth too tired to escape the flame.
Flora sat with her back to the wall, legs drawn up just enough to tuck one foot beneath her, an oversized shirt-dress spilling loosely around her frame like something borrowed. The pale silk hung off one shoulder, intentional maybe, or perhaps not—either way, it gave just the faintest glimpse of gauze and lavender ointment near the collarbone. Her curls were pulled into a low twist, more practical than stylish, and though she’d taken the time to darken her lashes with a touch of mascara, it did little to disguise how drained she looked.
No rings. No glitter. No usual crown of accessories to dazzle the eye. Just a glass of water in her hands, held too carefully to be casual.
The seat across from her remained empty. And though her body was still, her thoughts flickered restlessly behind her eyes—old memories layered over new wounds, like sea glass dragged against the shore. Every time the door creaked open, she glanced up, quiet hope fluttering briefly in her chest like a moth too tired to escape the flame.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
