[the afternoon]

[but this time, something was different. There was no sense of desperation, just a spiralling sadness that filled the room, filled every pore of the face, every damp lungful of breath, every slow-ticking moment of the grey afternoon.

It seemed that something was incubating in that sadness. Something small scratched at the walls, tapped the window panes. The house was topsy turvy. The sky above was the colour of ashes and the air smelt of fire. Yet something grew firmer in that space. Small bones formed, blind eyes, world-weary limbs. It took time. It took stock. It took its own pace. It couldn't be rushed, just as]