Seven o’clock came. Eleanor stepped into the dining room just as the hands aligned. Punctual, without pause.
Redness clung to her gaze. Beyond morning swelling, you might soothe with clothes and chill — this refused ease. Hours wept away had left lids puffy, gleaming, almost bee-stung raw. Ice pressed close for twenty slow turns of the clock. Three thick dabs of cover-up smeared on top — yet none of it made a difference.
Her shoulders dropped. The mirror showed her face, eyes fixed on the glass while fingers pulled at her lips — a shape meant to be warm, yet ending up crooked. It looked more like pain wearing a mask.
That cream knit dress hung loose on her frame, hair tied back without fuss. Not much color on her face — just enough to notice. Yet those eyes… they gave it all away.
Sunl
