[ Wendy lacks the same kind of propensity for doors and liminal spaces (though there are moments when it seems like she could slip away into them, leaving behind an empty space where her tremulous smile used to be). She gasps faintly as the rose appears, and rather than picking it up by hand, she coaxes it into the air. It trembles an inch, two inches, above the sill, droplets of dew falling onto the wood. (How romantic, she thinks. Red red red the color of blood, thinks the thing inside her.)
But her body is hers, for the moment, and so she waits, busying herself with the small things she believes herself capable of. ]
no subject
But her body is hers, for the moment, and so she waits, busying herself with the small things she believes herself capable of. ]