your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
The Hanged Man still smells like rum-soaked wood and too many stories, but there’s something new stitched into its bones now—something glimmering just beneath the surface. Light filters through stained glass windows in sea-swept hues, casting coral blues and kelp greens across the worn floorboards. The upholstery’s been refreshed in lush, celestial fabrics. The lighting, too, is different: softer, warmer, casting everything in the flattering glow of twilight on open water. And glitter. So much glitter. Still clinging to the corners of tabletops, sparkling between floorboards, and drifting lazily down from the rafters like confetti that never quite settled after the triplets' birthday.
The door swings open with the flair of someone who’s never once entered a room quietly, and Flora steps through as if she owns the place. (She doesn’t—not anymore—but the bar still hums with memory when she crosses the threshold, like the walls remember her boots on the floor and her laugh above the din.) She’s in high-waisted shorts and a breezy blouse knotted at the waist, gold rings glittering on her fingers, and her curls are piled up like spun honey, held together with a comb that might’ve once belonged to a mermaid but was probably something pretty she'd just snagged from the market.
Perched imperiously on her shoulder, Spice flicks her tail and releases a very dainty puff of frost, as if announcing royalty.
"Hellooooooooo!" Flora calls, dropping onto a barstool with the ease of someone returning to a throne. Her grin is all teeth and sunshine, eyes sweeping the back room with lazy curiosity. "I swear if someone doesn’t pour me something scandalous in the next thirty seconds, I’m putting myself on payroll again."
The door swings open with the flair of someone who’s never once entered a room quietly, and Flora steps through as if she owns the place. (She doesn’t—not anymore—but the bar still hums with memory when she crosses the threshold, like the walls remember her boots on the floor and her laugh above the din.) She’s in high-waisted shorts and a breezy blouse knotted at the waist, gold rings glittering on her fingers, and her curls are piled up like spun honey, held together with a comb that might’ve once belonged to a mermaid but was probably something pretty she'd just snagged from the market.
Perched imperiously on her shoulder, Spice flicks her tail and releases a very dainty puff of frost, as if announcing royalty.
"Hellooooooooo!" Flora calls, dropping onto a barstool with the ease of someone returning to a throne. Her grin is all teeth and sunshine, eyes sweeping the back room with lazy curiosity. "I swear if someone doesn’t pour me something scandalous in the next thirty seconds, I’m putting myself on payroll again."
