Chapter 1
The amber light of the morning used to be an invitation—a soft, golden hand reaching through the curtains to wake her with a promise. Rose remembered how she used to lean into those rays, closing her eyes and letting the heat soak into her skin until she couldn't help but smile at the day.
But today, the sunbeams felt intrusive. They danced across her tangled hair and settled on her quilt, indifferent to the weight of the silence in the room. She watched the dust motes drift through the light, tiny fragments of nothingness floating in a beautiful glow. It was warm, she supposed. She could see the brightness. But as she stared at the glowing patch on her wall, she realized she didn't feel a thing. The sun had kept its warmth, but Rose had lost her rhythm.
She rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. Rose took a quiet shower as the water rushed down her body. She got out wearing being sweatshirt and blue washed jeans. She went towards the kitchen and started making coffee for herself.
Rose took the cup and went to her living room.Rose’s eyes drifted to the corner of her desk, landing on the bouquet she had forgotten to throw away weeks ago. The water was gone, leaving only a dry, murky ring at the bottom of the glass.
The lilies, once vibrant and reaching, were now bowed low, their necks snapped under the weight of their own decay. Their petals were no longer velvet; they were translucent and crinkled like old parchment, turning a bruised, hollow brown at the edges.
She reached out a finger, hovering just inches away from a shriveled leaf. She didn't touch it—she didn't have to. She knew that even the lightest ghost of a breeze would cause it to shatter.
"We are the same," she whispered into the quiet room.
The sun was still hitting them, illuminating the veins in the dead leaves, but the light was useless now. There was no life left to catch it. She realized then that she wasn't just looking at dead flowers; she was looking at a mirror. Like them, she was still standing in the light, but the roots of her joy had dried up long ago, leaving behind only a brittle shell that was waiting for the wind to take it.
