Sunlight

I push open the door, step into the cottage. The threads of time stretch themselves taut and I see her in the moment before she reacts to my presence.

She is standing at the round glass window, leaning an elbow against the wall, still too frail to stand on her own. Her feet are bare. She stands with her weight in her toes, heels hovering just above the ground. Weak rays of winter sunlight shine through the glass. She seems so small framed in the light, even smaller than she really is, the lines of her bones sharp and pointy beneath her rumpled tunic and pants. Her hair sticks in all directions, sunlight filters through the fine dark strands. It’s always in her eyes. I wish I could braid it, but she barely let me cut the knots out. She doesn’t like to be touched.

Her hand is stretched out, fingers bright in the rays. Her eyes are half shut, she seems hesitant, cautious. As if the sun could vanish with a thought. It is as if she has barely seen the sun, doesn’t know what to make of it.

I realise this is likely.

Her hair and eyelashes glow. The sun splashes her nose, her sharp cheekbones, the palm of her hand, the knife scar across her cheek. Her brown eyes are stormy and sad and dark with ghosts.

The door shuts behind me with a muffled clunk. The threads snap, the moment shatters. Her head jerks towards me. She startles, scurries to the far wall of the cottage, face closed and fearful. That tiny whisper of her soul disappearing behind those eyes.