The window pane was cold against her forehead, the city a blur of rain and neon beyond. Erin’s breath clouded the glass, then vanished, like thoughts she couldn't quite grasp. The familiar ache settled in her chest, a quiet hum beneath the surface of her calm.
It wasn't sadness, not entirely. More a profound understanding of absence, of spaces left unsaid. A small, antique wooden bird, carved from dark cherry wood, sat on the sill. She picked it up, tracing the smooth, cool lines. Its wings were outstretched, poised for flight, but it was anchored, always returning to her hand.
It was a gift, a silent promise. A soft tremor ran through her fingers. She turned the bird over, revealing a tiny, almost invisible crack running along its base. The flaw wasn't new, but today it felt heavier, a metaphor for something unseen. She closed her eyes, the bird clutched tight. The rain outside seemed to intensify, a drumming against the glass, mirroring the pulse behind her eyelids. Sometimes, the quiet was the loudest sound. The bird, though imperfect, was still here. Still solid. Still hers. She brought it to her heart, the slight pressure a grounding force.