Zielle
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For a long moment, Milo says nothing. It's like he just turned into a stone. Like he regrets ever opening his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Milo finally says, voice almost a whisper. He sets the clippers aside and lets the stillness settle. He doesn't look away, but he doesn't stare either, just lets me have the space between words.
I close my eyes and let the memory unfurl only at the edges. I don't want to see the blood they were drowning in, just the way the garden used to look in my childhood home—the sunlight, the neat rows, my parents' laughter blending into the floral air. I learned not to linger on images that make the breath leave my body.
When I was growing up, I always used to dread the moment when the picture of my parents' faces would fade into nothing in my memories. But on the hard days here, I barely have the time to reminisce at all.
Still, sometimes, in this buffered corner of Lyssomire, loss catches me off guard.
