(Back to Amara's end of the story… )
The world felt muted.
Soft.
Distant.
As if wrapped in layers of cotton and autumn grief… like the passing of something…
Amara stood before a tall mirror, draped in bridal white and woven gold…
the kind of attire that should have made a young woman glow.
And she was beautiful.
Painfully so.
Her veil shimmered like morning mist.
Her gown flowed around her like liquid moonlight.
Delicate jewels framed her face, catching every flicker of those decked up lights.
A golden family heirloom curled along her wrists like blooming vines.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were hollow.
Wide, dark, rimmed with sleepless nights.
No spark lived in them…only a dull resignation,
like someone who had finally run out of tears.
She blinked once.
Slow.
Stiff.
A movement dripping with exhaustion.
Her chest rose and fell, but barely so…as if even breathing hurt.
Her fingers, folded in front of her, trembled like withered petals in the wind.
