Outside, the wind lunges with fervor, roaring with invisible strength. The rain pounds insistently against the pavement, rebounding into the cavernous night. Under the harsh, unyielding glare of the streetlamps, it scatters a kaleidoscope of fragmented light.
Inside, she is alone.
A single tear charts a sorrowful path along the hollow curve of her sunken cheeks, painstakingly outlining the contours of her gaunt face before succumbing to gravity’s relentless pull, vanishing into the worn fabric of her pale blue blouse.
It has been like this since Monday. Today is already Friday. Five long days.
This time.
The old photograph, clutched in her unsteady hand, is fading—its vibrant colors surrendering despondently to the tyranny of time. But the memory it depicts refuses to fade. It remains vivid, poignant, tangibly alive.
They are smiling.
Peering innocently into the unwavering lens, both are intent on capturing this rare, fleeting moment of shared delight, preserving it like a fragile moth encased in amber. The evanescence of it all was undeniable. They knew it. Even then, they were acutely aware of it. They understood that his impending ascent would distort their reality, that their lives would shift to match the influence he was poised to wield. They both understood the sacrifices he would be required to make. That they both would have to make.
But they couldn’t have foreseen what was to come. How could they?
The distance between them.
A shrill, discordant ring shatters the heavy silence.
The abrupt intrusion of the telephone catches her off guard, jolting her from her thoughts. She hesitates, then answers, out of habit. Or hope.
“H-hello,” her voice—a gravelly whisper—grates against the sterile hush of the room. It feels foreign. Abrasive. Unforgiving.
“Yes… yes… I’m fine.”
“Thank you, but no. I—I don’t need… No. Thank you. So thoughtful of you to… Yes. No. Of course not…”
“I, uh… I have to go. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry… there… there’s someone at the door… okay, bye.”
The lie feels real.
She drops the receiver abruptly, leaving it swinging like a noose from the wall, before reaching down to yank the jarring-white cord from its socket.
Outside, the wind is relentless, gathering speed, tearing mercilessly through the leafless branches—stark and empty now. The rain has dissipated, leaving in its wake a tear-stained pavement and a monotonous gray sky.
Inside, she strikes a match, watching the tiny flame sizzle, expand, then settle into a steady, hypnotic glow. She lights a cigarette, exhaling forcefully, spewing a cloud of smoke across the room. In the half-light, she sees the faint swirl of smoke clouds spiraling upwards towards the ceiling—phantoms from a past she cannot bear to touch.
The bouquet of violets, rosemary, pansies, and rue she bought a week ago has begun to fade, but still, their colors slice into her skin like a razor. The dirty vibrancy of their petals clashes cruelly with the monochrome she has come to value. Jaundiced like the sun, too bright for dull eyes.
The pen trembles in her frail grip; the ink mingles with her tears, streaking red across the page.
Red for love. Red for danger. Red for blood.
“Hey nonny, nonny, hey nonny
And in his grave rained many a tear.”
She parades meticulously around the room, step for step, following his. Her arms outstretched, wrapped around the neck of a shattered silhouette.
She stops, immobilized by thought.
“You promised me to wed…”
A clarity.
With a sudden, violent movement, she tears the photograph in two. “We know what we are, but know not what we may be,” she screams into the vacuum. The echoes of their younger, gentler selves reverberate off the whitewashed walls, reduced to jagged shards of torn paper. Their smiles fragmented forever. Shattered.
“The readiness is all,” she murmurs softly into the oppressive silence. “Providence. In the fall of a sparrow.”
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