When one year had passed, it was April fourteenth, 1913.
Rose shook inside. She paced and turned back towards the clock and paced and paced and wished that she could walk miles and miles until she collapsed with exhaustion and never woke up again.
The baby cried.
From the other room, the baby wailed as though it understood her pain, and Rose sank to the ground with a sob.
She was so alone.
You could stand in the middle of a crowded room and still be as isolated as a girl on a boat deck, empty in the rain.
You could have humans crowded around you and be as disconnected as a piece of debris floating in the sea.
And she cried.
The emptiness inside forced out the tears, and she cried until the emptiness gaped like a deep, bloodless wound. It was nearly midnight and she was thinking of him, and she wished more than anything that he could be there for her.
But he never would be, ever again, and she was trapped here because the only living piece of him left on the planet was the child that had fallen asleep only a room away from her crumpled form.
So she let herself mourn for her lover, her soul mate, her best friend, and then she she stood up and walked away from the pain she had emptied out.
