The scent of rosemary oils and what you would imagine the colour lilac to smell like, in my mother’s room used to bring a sense of grounding, a connection to the Lunaris I knew.
Now, it just feels…stifling.
She stands before the crackling fire, her back to me, her shoulders rigid with a tension I know all too well.
The air between us is thick, heavy with unspoken accusations and a disappointment that hangs like a shroud.
“I don’t know who you are anymore, Nox,” she finally says, her voice low and laced with a weariness that cuts deeper than any physical blow.
I lean against the smooth-hewn doorframe, my arms crossed, trying to project an air of nonchalance I don’t entirely feel.
“Well, Mother,” I reply, my tone deliberately casual, “you’re the one who orchestrated this little…uns
