In a quiet coastal town, a mysterious journal is found, tucked between the pages of a random book. It belongs to an explorer who vanished a century ago while searching for a mythical island believed to grant immortality. The journal, filled with cry...
Where are you leading me? Where are you leading me? Where are you taking me? Why do you invade my thoughts, wretched and unwanted, and yet, why can I not push you away? Curse or blessing, I do not know. But then again, I need you, too. Do I? Do I?
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SHE WISHED SHE WAS NOT SUCH A SORRY MESS.
As she placed the tray on the table, almost stumbled, and finally had the sense to sit down, she noticed Mr. Whitmore observing her. A sweet, almost non-existent, melodious pink hue adorned the graceful arch of her neck, and her movements were more harried than usual as she reached for her cup. She felt self-conscious, as if that was not clear already, and his stupid staring made her feel nothing but worse.
She put in a single teaspoon of sugar in her drink, stirred it, the clink of the silver against porcelain echoing across her measly lounge. She saw him do the same, and brought the cup to her lips, watching the steam drift into the air, twisting and turning into beautiful patterns before it was lost forever. Seraphina took a quick sip, the liquid filling her mouth, the soft, delicious flavor wrapping around her tongue, enveloping her taste buds in a loving embrace. It was better than she had expected.
Mr. Whitmore, on the other hand, seemed to think otherwise. She saw him try to drink some of it, and then sputter, his cup thumping on the table with a loud thud, his eyes wide, wheezing. She fought a smile. As much as Seraphina appreciated approval, she could not help but extract retribution from Arthur Whitmore, in a sense, when the chance came. It was a simple enough affair, heating up his tea to the point that it would burn his lips. Of course, she hadn't really meant to injure or maim him, but if something of the sort happened, it was certainly not her fault.
Seraphina believed in treating guests respectfully, but when those guests had the audacity to not only insult the one source of her living, but also make fun of her career, they deserved a bit backlash. Nothing much.
"Are you quite alright, Mr. Whitmore, or is the tea too disgusting?" she asked, a hint of disappointment somehow adorning her voice. Seraphina hoped she hadn't caused any real damage. He didn't reply for a bit, holding up his finger, gesturing her to wait as he caught his breath.
"No. Just...just a bit hot, is all. The tea's...lovely." he replied, ever the gentleman, and though she enjoyed his discomfort to an extent, she also felt a bit guilty for doing that to him. She consoled herself in the knowledge that he would think before making such dire assumptions again.
"Good. Have some of the biscuits, too, please, they're delicious."
Usually, her pantry was filled with enough groceries to help her survive, and she could whip up a good enough lunch. But ever since that cursed book came into her life, she felt afraid even stepping out, and there wasn't much left to offer to Mr. Whitmore. That's why Seraphina had just emptied the box of biscuits she made the mistake of buying once (their taste was absolutely loathsome), and presented it on the table.
