The Wolf Ballet || WW2

48. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Forty-Eight

Ophelia recalled the overwhelming feeling of nervousness as dawn carried in like the willows beneath the guise of smoking wind. She shifted awake, her head rubbing against the fabric of her bed. Sitting up, she gazed around her room. The night was seemingly coming to an end, the light of the rising day, a bleak greyish-blue tone of a fresh morning day found a way to guide her in the otherwise dim room.

Had she fallen asleep?

She remembers coming back in after draining the water from the tub and getting changed. Looking at the corner of the room, on the silk-pressed floral loveseat, lay the baby blue dress she had set aside for the previous night.

Guilt clouded over Ophelia's face as she assumed she had missed out on Leonard's extravagant dinner. She had only intended to lay down for a moment while her hair dried, apparently not realizing just how tired she had come to be.

Ophelia gently glided herself off the edge of her bed, her bare feet touching the wooden floors with a sense of hesitation.

She began to wonder if both her German guides had finally joined them in the small country. If so, she found it odd that they hadn't come up to wake her. Ophelia pulled back the drapes to her window and peeked out towards the front of the house. She didn't see an additional car in the driveway. The French ballerina sighed, realizing they hadn't come as of yet. Nevertheless, she didn't doubt they'd be in town by morning.

Relieved that she hadn't missed out on welcoming them back, she quickly grabbed her robe and headed for the door.
The halls were dark—stillness and in tune with the singing of the awakening early morning birds carried their way through the house. Ophelia noticed both Leonard's and Savannah's room doors were closed. Ophelia figured they were vast asleep.

Not wanting to make too much of a hassle, she gently stepped outward and slowly closed the door behind her. Lurking on the tip of her toes, she quietly held onto the railing of the stairs and made her way down.

Ophelia made a straight line for the kitchen, passing by the singular dinner plate still left on the placemat. Her heart weighed itself upon noticing that her food was left untouched on the table. Leonard probably assumed she'd come down to eat soon before it became cold. It was a miserable feeling once she lifted it off the surface. She had already let it go to waste—she figured, the least she could do was wash it. Ophelia took her time in properly disposing of the food before bringing it to the sink. Her hands were once again covered in the unscented froth of soap mixing with water. Washing her hands off it, she settled the plate to the side and reached to turn the water off. A simple moment suddenly turned back to the last and once more did that inescapable misery of the pathetic past come to fruition. Ophelia would find likeness among the weak leaking water. Her hand upon the silver facet was for a moment, a rusted handle.

She let it go, instantaneously removing herself from a version of herself where she stood inside the Auschwitz showers. The visions seemed to have worsened, this time it took a lot for Ophelia to pull herself out. The French heiress took a staggering moment to quietly calm herself.

Wiping her hands dry with a nearby towel cloth, she was depleted under the impression that such after-effects would be her everlasting affliction. Her blue eyes would settle only for a moment before rising towards the open view of the backfield in front of her.

She blinked, unfocusing and refocusing on the surprising sight of a distant ash-filled pall. Ophelia was unbelieving of it—assuming it was just another memory she shut her eyes. Her teeth seethed together as she strained herself to keep them closed. Eventually, she let them go, and her blue eyes were once again greeted by the familiar sight of smoke.