The moment Nathaniel walked out, the door shutting softly behind him, Clara's strength gave out like it had only been borrowed.
She stayed frozen for a moment, staring at the wood as if staring long enough would bring him back. But he didn't. And the silence that followed wasn't comforting. It pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, until her chest tightened painfully.
Her fingers slipped from the doorknob.
Then her knees buckled.
She slid down the door without meaning to, ending up on the floor with her arms wrapped around herself. For a long moment she didn't make a sound. She just stayed there, breathing unevenly, eyes burning, her heart pounding too loudly in the quiet room.
Then the tears came.
Slow at first—silent tracks down her face. But once the first fell onto her lap, the rest followed with no resistance. These weren't loud sobs. They were quieter. Smaller. The kind of grief that pressed inward until it felt like her ribs might crack.
Her work was gone.
