Lydia remained on the floor, crying and clutching her chest. Her fingers dug into the soft fabric of her robe, twisting it tightly as if holding herself together was the only thing keeping her from breaking completely. The silk was thin beneath her nails, slipping against her skin, but she gripped it harder as though it were the only anchor she had. Her sobs tore out of her throat unevenly, sharp and heavy, each one breaking her apart a little more.
Her hair was a tangled curtain over her face, the strands sticking to her wet cheeks, but she didn't care to move them. She could barely see through her swollen eyes, and even if she could, there was nothing in the golden-framed room that could comfort her. The walls, once warm with candlelight, seemed to lean inward, pressing down on her. The gilded patterns and polished floor only mocked her now—they sparkled while she fell apart. The air was thick, heavy, suffocating, as if grief itself had filled the chamber.
