Scarlet
The house was warm, too warm. The moment I stepped through the door, the scent of fresh bread and lavender filled my nose, a stark contrast to the chaos I had just fled from.
The soft hum of my mother’s voice drifted from the living room, weaving a gentle melody into the air. My father’s low chuckle followed, rich and full of contentment.
They were happy.
They were untouched by the storm raging inside me.
I wanted to be like them.
The sight of them, standing side by side, my father’s arm draped around my mother’s waist as they swayed to a song only they could hear, made something in my chest ache.
They lived in their own world, untouched by the classist hierarchy that dictated every breath outside these walls. They had never cared about rank, status, or the ruthless divide
