Shadows and Broken Glass

Silent Graves

The room was lowly lit, the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Mia sat on the edge of the couch, her fingers gently sifting through Killian's unruly hair. His chest rose and fell rhythmically as he slept, the lines of worry that usually etched his face now smoothed out in slumber.

The navy blue vest he had worn last night hung over the back of the couch, its fabric still carrying the faint scent of his cologne. Mia had managed to slip off his shoes, one by one, careful not to wake him. She glanced at the coffee table, where Mme Rose's letter lay. The edges were slightly curled from being read and re-read. Mia knew its contents well. The emotions it stirred in Killian were complex, a mix of gratitude, longing, and pain.

The blanket she'd draped over him was worn and threadbare, but it was all she had to shield him from the winter chill. She adjusted it, tucking it around his shoulders, her touch lingering. His breaths were steady, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and soothing. She watched him, her own eyes heavy with fatigue. The whispers—the ghosts of memories and regrets—swirled around her, refusing to let her rest.

The whispers danced in the corners of the room, elusive and haunting. They spoke of secrets buried deep, of promises unfulfilled. Mia's gaze lingered on Killian's lips, wondering what words he might utter if he were awake.

Outside, the sky was gradually lightening. The first rays of dawn painted the room in muted shades of pink and gold. Mia listened to the distant sounds—the early-morning traffic, the chirping of birds. But it was the whispers that kept her awake. She had always been good at keeping secrets, but this one weighed heavily on her heart.

Her heart ached as she thought about the specialty of the day; Christmas Eve—the festivities, the laughter, the warmth of family. For her, it had lost its meaning long ago. The twinkling lights outside seemed distant, irrelevant. She had grown accustomed to solitude, to dinners eaten alone while memories of happier times tugged at her heart. Now, it was just another day, another reminder of what she'd lost.

As she watched Killian sleep, she realized that perhaps celebrations weren't about grand feasts or glittering lights. Maybe they were about finding solace in unexpected companionship, about sharing warmth in the coldest of nights.

The scent of pine needles and cinnamon teased her senses, a phantom reminder of happier times. She wondered if Killian dreamed of better days too, if his sleep held visions of hope and redemption.

Mia's footsteps were soft against the wooden floor as she slipped away from Killian's side. The bathroom door creaked open, revealing a small, tiled space. She shed her clothes, each garment falling to the floor with a hushed rustle. The mirror above the sink reflected her tired eyes, the shadows beneath them a testament to sleepless nights.

The water cascaded over her, a gentle stream that washed away the residue of the night. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her skin, soothing the knots in her muscles.

The steam enveloped her, cocooning her in a private world. She tilted her head back, allowing the water to cascade over her face, erasing the traces of weariness. The mirror reflected a face she barely recognized—a face that held secrets, regrets, and a longing she dared not name. Her thoughts swirled like eddies in the steam-filled air.

Her fingers traced patterns on the tiles—a distraction from the memories that threatened to resurface. Killian's face lingered in her mind. She wondered if he would still be asleep when she emerged. Would he wake, disoriented, searching for her? Or would he remain lost in dreams, oblivious to the ache that pulsed within her?

The soap lathered between her palms, and she scrubbed at her skin, as if trying to erase the ache that clung to her bones.

The water turned colder, snapping her back to reality. She shut off the faucet, wrapping herself in a plush towel. The room smelled of soap and steam, a comforting blend that clung to her skin. She glanced at her reflection once more, pondering if she could be as brave as the characters in the stories she reads.