Echoes of Despair
Natasha then raised a hesitant foot… the faint rasp of her boot on the highly polished floor ripping through the silence like a naked admission. Every echo grounded her in the moment, a bitter reminder that she existed, facing yesterday's ghosts. She crept along, cautiously, as if making her way through a half-remembered dream. Her gaze wandered over the bedspread, the curtains sweeping across the floor, the vanity littered with small, private mementos—each frozen, untouched, held in exact stillness.
And then—the soft, wet squelch beneath her foot.
