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“How does it feel?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut through the fog but soft enough to land like a whisper
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Seraphina sat cross-legged on the floor, the cool wood grounding her as the room hummed with stillness. Between her fingers, the edge of a threadbare rug, unraveling in places.
She toyed with it absently, her movements slow, deliberate, the way one studies a frayed edge not to fix it but to understand how it came undone.
Across from her, he sat in the armchair, one leg draped lazily over the other. A mug rested in his hand, forgotten but steady, the tendrils of steam long gone.
He wasn’t looking at her.
Not directly.
His gaze hovered somewhere between her bare shoulder and the space just above her head, as if what he was searching for lived in the air, not in her.
The silence stretched, thick and full, like a third presence in the room.
She could feel it pressing against her skin, unspoken words brushing her like a ghost. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either.
It was raw, like the sharp intake of breath before something is said that cannot be…
