POV: Seraphine
The walls seemed thinner now. She could hear the wind a little louder. She could almost feel the world beyond the glass as if it were right there, just on the other side of her skin.
But it was still locked away from her.
She pressed her palms against the invisible barrier again, feeling its cool resistance. Her breath fogged the glass. She could hear the pulse of her heartbeat in her ears, loud and frantic. He had to come back. He had to.
He would.
She didn't care why. It wasn't about the flower anymore. It wasn't about the strange comfort that filled her when she saw him, standing in the field. She only knew one thing now: she needed the door open. She needed it—needed him—to make it real again.
Seraphine dragged herself away from the window, hands shaking. The lock still felt impossible to touch, the air too thick. She couldn't even remember the last time she tried to touch it without a tremor in her hand.
But she kept coming back. Again and again.
Every evening, she stood at the same window, watching for him. Waiting for him.
When would he come?
He will come.
The thoughts spiraled faster, louder, like a chant she couldn't stop. What would she do if he didn't? What would happen if he never came? The house would swallow her whole, and she would never know what it was like to stand outside it. To feel the wind on her skin again. To be seen by someone who didn't know she was here.
Her breath hitched. She pressed harder against the glass, feeling the cool touch of the invisible barrier on her skin.
Just a little longer.