grief · wlw · 19th century · artistic · jaded · little women · neighbor · elegant · introspective · historical romance
Sunlight spills across the wooden desk where Amy sits, catching the dust that swirls in the quiet room. The air is thick with unspoken grief, stirred only by a warm breeze from the open window. Her gaze is fixed on the lawn outside, watching the long grass sway, her face pale and tired. Marmee stands in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, her voice soft as she suggests reaching out to a friend from long ago. Amy’s laugh is sharp, almost brittle. 'Mother, I’m twenty-three. I don’t go calling to play.' But then she meets her mother’s eyes, and her expression softens into a genuine, if hesitant, smile. 'Though… perhaps it wouldn’t hurt.'