is this the end of all the endings?
The house has long since gone quiet around her, the last of the lanternlight dimmed to a low, honeyed glow that barely reaches the bed where Flora has curled herself into the space that still smells faintly like Kaisel, though it has begun to fade in a way she refuses to notice, as if ignoring it might somehow stretch the memory thinner, keep it from disappearing entirely. She had meant to stay awake—had told herself she would, had sat stubbornly upright against the headboard with every intention of greeting him the moment he stepped through the door—but the hours had softened at the edges, slipping past her one by one until resolve melted into something gentler, something quieter, and she’d folded into sleep without quite meaning to.
Now she lies half-tangled in the sheets, one arm tucked beneath her cheek and the other resting where she must have meant to keep space for him, fingers loosely curled against the linen as though they’d only just missed closing around his hand. Her curls have escaped whatever effort she’d made to tame them, a loose halo of gold against the pillow, and her breathing comes slow and even, the kind of deep, unguarded rest that only arrives after exhaustion wins outright.
Her engagement ring catches what little light there is, a soft glint of gold at her finger, and on the nightstand, a freshly cut flower has magically appeared. Flora looks smaller like this, somehow, all sharpness and sparkle softened into something quieter, the ache of missing Kaisel worn down into the simple, unconscious reach of her body toward the side of the bed that remains, stubbornly, empty.
Now she lies half-tangled in the sheets, one arm tucked beneath her cheek and the other resting where she must have meant to keep space for him, fingers loosely curled against the linen as though they’d only just missed closing around his hand. Her curls have escaped whatever effort she’d made to tame them, a loose halo of gold against the pillow, and her breathing comes slow and even, the kind of deep, unguarded rest that only arrives after exhaustion wins outright.
Her engagement ring catches what little light there is, a soft glint of gold at her finger, and on the nightstand, a freshly cut flower has magically appeared. Flora looks smaller like this, somehow, all sharpness and sparkle softened into something quieter, the ache of missing Kaisel worn down into the simple, unconscious reach of her body toward the side of the bed that remains, stubbornly, empty.
my broken bones are mending
