RHEA'S POV
A light knock comes at the door and I do not answer, but the person enters anyway. I do not turn my head. I know it is Eliza by her gentle footsteps, by the subtle scent of jasmine and something gentler, like soap or baby powder that always clings to her, by the quiet sigh she gives when she sees me still lying in the same position as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
"Hi Rhea," she says with that careful cheerfulness that people use around the bereaved. "I have brought you some breakfast."
I hear the clink of china as she sets a tray on the bedside table. The smell of cinnamon porridge and mint tea wafts toward me, making my empty stomach clench. I have not been hungry for days. Food seems pointless, like a meaningless ritual for people who have so
