The silence in the room vibrates like a thread ready to snap. Amias stands at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, and fingers trembling so hard he can feel the tremors ricocheting up his forearms. The tear tracks on his cheeks cool slowly, sticking to his skin like glue, reminding him of everything he's just lost and everything he's about to lose.
Clarissa lies unmoving, her breath still shallow and uneven. Amias ignores all of Vark's tantrums, mostly because if he acknowledges the thought, he might actually do it.
He sinks back down beside his mother's bed. His knees hit the floor with a muted thud. He presses his forehead against her mattress, breathing shakily through his nose. The scent of her old perfume clings to the sheets, smelling like bergamot, clove, something sweet and floral. He hasn't smelled it in years. She stopped wearing it the day she lost her mate.
"She's still here," he whispers to himself. "She's still… she's still here."
