make peace with your broken pieces
She was right; he does arrive. Or some facsimile of him, at least, the empty shell that houses what remains of her once-friend. Amalia turns to the sound of his voice, her dark eyes scanning for lingering wounds, a breath of relief when she comes up short. Nothing external, at least. She knows well that the greatest wounds are those beneath the skin.
"Nearly a year," Amalia agrees. Turning back to the well-loved grave, she lets his voice wash over her, an ache in her heart for the boyish joy she'd always seen in his eyes. She'd asked him once how he stayed so bright in the presence of so much dark. In those days she'd thought him indestructible, unquenchable.
How very wrong she'd been.
"Loss is a wound that never heals." Kneeling down, Amalia takes a star-shaped stone into her hand, turning it over with a small, sad smile. "Some days it hurts less. Some days you can almost forget it. And some days... some days it opens up again, and it's the worst feeling in the world." Adam. Aoife. Peter. Her mother, grandmother. A boy who died in her arms.
"Nearly a year," Amalia agrees. Turning back to the well-loved grave, she lets his voice wash over her, an ache in her heart for the boyish joy she'd always seen in his eyes. She'd asked him once how he stayed so bright in the presence of so much dark. In those days she'd thought him indestructible, unquenchable.
How very wrong she'd been.
"Loss is a wound that never heals." Kneeling down, Amalia takes a star-shaped stone into her hand, turning it over with a small, sad smile. "Some days it hurts less. Some days you can almost forget it. And some days... some days it opens up again, and it's the worst feeling in the world." Adam. Aoife. Peter. Her mother, grandmother. A boy who died in her arms.
shield of safrin
