Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: why do you let me stay here - she & him
✵────────[ ✵ ]────────✵
"The orphanage opens in a few days." Tommy announced, breaking the silence as he laid a stack of papers before her with a nonchalant air.
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Marianna's hotel room, casting a soft, amber glow that softened the harsh lines of Birmingham's skyline beyond the glass. The air was laced with the faint scent of jasmine from the vase she'd left by the window—a delicate bloom in a city hardened by soot and steel.
She sat at her table, her hands idly tracing the faint embossment on a pamphlet, its edges still pristine. But her gaze wasn't on the paper. Instead, her eyes tracked the man's figure as he moved through her space. Without meeting her gaze, Tommy turned to the unfinished painting resting on the easel near the window. The stroke of the brush had been soft, tentative; it was a scene of wild meadows, untouched by the filth and fury of Birmingham's streets.
"Seein' as you're dead an' all, bit of a shame you won't be givin' your big speech, yeah?" Tommy's words cut through her reverie, his mouth curling into a wry smile, though he kept his back turned to her.
Marianna suppressed the urge to smile herself, fighting the glimmer of amusement that threatened to creep across her face. She leaned back, folding her arms, her gaze steady as she watched him in silence for a beat. "You named it after me, then? An' all?"
"Well, love, you went an' 'died' at that bloody fundraiser to get the place up, didn't you?"He shrugged, hands sinking into his pockets with a casualness that belied the weight of his words. His voice held a trace of something softer, almost tender, though he masked it well. "Least we could do is keep yer name on it, even if you're playin' the ghost now."
She glanced down at the pamphlet, the light catching on its carefully inked edges, her fingers tightening around the paper as the smile she'd worn began to wane. This was more than bricks and mortar to her; it was a chance to rewrite her past, to give the children of Birmingham a home that was more than just a roof over their heads—a place where they would be fed, loved, and nurtured, safe from the brutal world that had once consumed her whole. A place to dream. It was everything she never had, and now, in a twisted irony, her own name would be inscribed on its gates as if in some half-hearted memorial.
