[Rosalind is a counterpoint to Robert as they move around each other in old habit, all spare economy of motion, putting leaves in the pot and having the burner lit by the time he sets the filled kettle upon it. She spares Elizabeth a glance as they finish and settle into waiting. A heaviness draws deep in her chest with the words, as if her heart is becoming denser, an unwelcome point of gravity for all the other things clustered in the hollow of her ribcage.
They aren't nightmares, for her. They're just memories, and ones she does not care to revisit.]
no subject
They aren't nightmares, for her. They're just memories, and ones she does not care to revisit.]
That seems a curious thing to be certain of.