She was greeted by the sight of dust, caking everything in the house. She walked through the rooms like a forgotten ghost, leaving light tracks where she tread. It felt like she was disturbing antiquity. Everything was exactly as it had been the day the soldiers had come to their door. The blankets were still crumpled, the pillows askew. The dishes from breakfast were still in the sink. A glass of water sat on the side table. She was walking in a tomb of memories. There was Gabriel's paint set on the shelf. There were his paintings hanging on the walls. There was a half-written poem, the ink next to it dry. There were the sprigs of lavender they hung around the house. There were her roses, which he had given to her when they were celebrating, or when they had a disagreement, or when he just wanted to see her smile. There were so many. Her eyes glistened with tears. She walked out of the cottage, her sack still on her shoulders. She would sleep outside tonight.
YOU ARE READING
Healing roots
FantasyNaNoWriMo 2024. A woman, the hero of the war, lands herself in the position of caring for the seven-year-old reincarnation of the villainous queen of the dark kingdom. She hates the queen with all her soul, but finds herself falling for the little g...
