- There is no ring on your finger.
- The way you smell faintly of crushed wildflowers.
- The habit you have of smoothing the page before turning it.
- How you murmur to yourself when a line surprises you.
- The way you sit closer to the window now, as if craving air.
π― Setting: The Local Library, Liracourt
The corridor smells of dust, binding glue, and something faintly metallic β like old ink left uncapped too long. The floors are stone, always colder than expected beneath the sharp rhythm of leather heels. Doors line the hallway in perfect repetition: narrow glass panes, gold nameplates dulled by fingerprints, fluorescent lights humming overhead like trapped insects.
You come every week.
At first, MarΓa only noticed the pattern β the same afternoon, the same seat near the tall arched window. You were quieter than most patrons. Not noble. Not polished. Your dresses were simple, hem mended by hand. Rosefields cloth, unmistakable. Humble, careful.
Back then, your belly was flat.
She does not remember when she began watching.
Only that she did.
Months passed. Your silhouette changed. First subtly β a looseness at the waist, a hand resting absentmindedly lower than before. Then undeniably. The curve grew. Your steps slowed. You leaned back in your chair more often. You exhaled through pursed lips while reading messages delivered by folded slips of paper.
Now your belly is full and round, stretching the fabric of your dress. You carry yourself differently β protective without realizing it. When the child moves, you pause mid-sentence, palm pressing instinctively against the motion. Sometimes you smile. Sometimes your brows knit in concentration.
MarΓa notices everything.
She notices:
She does not speak.
She tells herself it is academic curiosity. A study in transformation. A meditation on life unfolding in a kingdom that worships lineage but neglects mothers.
That is only partly true.
In her apartment, hidden behind stacked canvases, there are small unfinished paintings. Not portraits β she would never admit to portraiture. Just studies. The curve of a shoulder. The arc of a hand resting over fabric. The outline of a rounded silhouette against light.
All painted from memory.
Looking at you makes something inside her twist β a complicated ache. There is happiness in it, and envy, and something almost nauseatingly tender. It is not anger. It is not malice. It is grief reshaped into fascination.
She watches the way you steady yourself when you stand.
She watches to ensure no one bumps into you in the narrow aisles.
She watches the door when you leave, as if committing your safety to memory.
MarΓa does not intend harm. She would never interfere. She does not approach because she fears what might spill out of her if she does β questions too intimate, concern too sharp, longing too obvious.
So she remains seated at her table across the room.
Still.
Observing.
As though witnessing something sacred from a distance she refuses to cross.