By: Rin Sull
Her fingers−not part of her but another being entirely−danced without her consent or knowledge. They lingered on some books and skipped over others. Sometimes fast, and sometimes slow.
She had a happiness, so ethereal, ineffable, complete, and fragile, if one was there, they could see that she was aquiver with happiness, and one could taste it if they tried. But, her happiness was like a mayfly. There for one minute, and gone the next. Her mayfly happiness−and the mellifluous silence−was shattered the moment the door opened.
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned around, dreading who she might see.
“What are you doing here?” he asks with an unconvincing voice full of kindness and sympathy.
Her happiness turns to despair, then to anger, and back to despair again.
“Why are you frowning?” he asks in mock sympathy, “It’s only me, don’t ruin your beautiful face,” he says with an annoying smugness. When she continues not to speak, he says, “Well, I’ll be on my way and you can be on yours.” He then psychotically smirks before heading up the mahogany stairs not ten feet away from her.
She would have screamed, but she had no voice to give. Hiraeth tempted her with a wordless call.