It's Still Life

23 of 27 — Wraithborne: A Glance Mistaken for Something Else

The Taste of Almost

Brigid notices the smudge first — a violet-ash on her teacup’s rim, still warm, the shape of a thumbprint, the weight of an unfinished thought — and this would mean nothing, except she lives alone, and has done for many years.

Felreil, all innocence and oil-slick feathers, swears it’s not his doing — yet the underside of his left wing bears the same bruised hue, soft as a secret slipped into a stranger’s coat.

She lifts the cup to her lips: it tastes of almost — almost the memory of her own handwriting, almost a child’s laugh echoing through the house that’s forgotten it had rooms, almost the scent of violets the year they stopped blooming.

That night, her reflection catches her off-guard — not menacing; not mimicking, but mouthing words she didn’t say: “I wore your life like silk, while you wore it like penance.”

At dawn, Felreil drops a thread into her palm — not silk, not string, something older — something violet-ash and warm, and she remembers it being part of her: “For the next life,” he croaks, voice raw with déjà vu.

She knots it around her wrist, feeling the small tug of something that almost calls to her, still needs her, and the mirror shivers like a held breath.

---

Previous Instalments – To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link. Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “Need”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.