I sit at the breakfast table, though "sit" feels too gentle a word for what I'm doing. Moon placed me here with insistent hands and quieter threats—the kind he never has to voice because his presence alone is enough to fill a room, to press against my skin, to remind me that I am no longer alone in this mansion even when I desperately want to be.
The table is perfectly set. White linen drapes over the edges, ironed into crisp lines. Polished silverware catches the morning light, each piece aligned with precise care.
Fresh flowers sit in a crystal vase at the center—pale pink roses, their petals still dotted with water, their fragrance sweet enough to become cloying.
Toast. Jam. Fruit. Juice.
Everything arranged with care. With intention. With him sitting beside me like he has every right to be there.
Like he belongs.
