your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
The Last Whisper folds around Flora like cigarette smoke and secrets, its cramped stone corridor holding the cool bite of subterranean air. Her curls frizz anyway in the damp, torch-lit gloom, and she’s weaving between customers when a voice hits her like a pebble skimming across still water.
Not the words at first. Just the tone. Young. Trying-so-hard-it-hurts young. And something in it pulls at her chest the same way old songs do—; sweet at the start and then suddenly sharp, like memory breaking skin.
She doesn’t look directly at Soren, not at first. Just drifts a little, her steps slowing as though she’d forgotten what direction she meant to take. The market noise blurs into background hum, her gaze catching only fragments: sun-warmed coins, a clenched jaw, determination so stiff it might snap. She knows that kind of hope; she’s seen it enough times in the mirror, and once, heartbreakingly, in Enzo’s face whenever he promised he’d fix something he shouldn’t have had to fix.
It’s that—more than the plea itself—that stops her.
Her fingers slip into the pocket of her pants, brushing against the soft mouth of a tiny change purse. She’s not carrying much; she rarely does down here, but coins are coins, and kindness disguised is easier for people to accept. Flora clears her throat lightly, stepping just close enough that it can look accidental. She bends, performing a little exaggerated flourish of reaching down as if plucking something just beyond her sandal.
"Oh hey," she says, tone airy and friendly, almost conspiratorial as she straightens and extends the small purse toward him. "I think you dropped this."
Not the words at first. Just the tone. Young. Trying-so-hard-it-hurts young. And something in it pulls at her chest the same way old songs do—; sweet at the start and then suddenly sharp, like memory breaking skin.
She doesn’t look directly at Soren, not at first. Just drifts a little, her steps slowing as though she’d forgotten what direction she meant to take. The market noise blurs into background hum, her gaze catching only fragments: sun-warmed coins, a clenched jaw, determination so stiff it might snap. She knows that kind of hope; she’s seen it enough times in the mirror, and once, heartbreakingly, in Enzo’s face whenever he promised he’d fix something he shouldn’t have had to fix.
It’s that—more than the plea itself—that stops her.
Her fingers slip into the pocket of her pants, brushing against the soft mouth of a tiny change purse. She’s not carrying much; she rarely does down here, but coins are coins, and kindness disguised is easier for people to accept. Flora clears her throat lightly, stepping just close enough that it can look accidental. She bends, performing a little exaggerated flourish of reaching down as if plucking something just beyond her sandal.
"Oh hey," she says, tone airy and friendly, almost conspiratorial as she straightens and extends the small purse toward him. "I think you dropped this."
