The living room exhales around me.
Not silent. Not truly. The kind of quiet that exists in the space between heartbeats—where words have been spoken and now hang suspended, waiting to either land or fall.
The chandelier casts its golden light over polished marble, untouched wine in crystal, and my father's face—set into something old and unmoving.
Mom is gone. She took her Persian cat with her, cradling it against her chest like something she never lost, her fingers buried deep in its white fur. The door closed behind her with a whisper.
Everic is gone too. He took Silas by the arm—light, casual, as if leading an old friend somewhere pleasant. I want to talk to him about something, he said. No one asked what.
Now only the wine remains.
It rests in my glass—dark, patient. I swirl it slowly, watching it catch the chandelier's light, watching it cling to the crystal before sliding back down.
Red as bruises. Red as heartblood.
I don't drink. I don't want to drink.
