The Table
On the table, the remnants of quiet warfare lay arranged, not neatly, but with the weight of consequence.
A teacup sat unbroken, porcelain thin, as if it had somehow survived what everything else had not. Beside it, a scorched letter, its edges blackened, the words inside lost to fire but still whispering char.
A scrap of ribbon lay next to it—Petty Blue—creased, its softness made sharp by the company it kept.
Near the ribbon, a tangle of threads knotted into something so dense, so ominous, it no longer resembled fabric at all but a warning, as if time itself had snarled.
A small heart-shaped locket rested nearby, its key tied to it as though it could never be trusted to wander free.
And set slightly apart, as if in quiet refusal, a crown—still regal, but laid down.
A bottle of perfume stood open, the cork discarded. The label read Ash and Roses. Fumes rose like smoke, twisting in the air—more poison than perfume, more vengeance than fragrance.
There was also a scrap of paper: an image of a crown stitched in gold and black thread, its creases deep from being folded and unfolded, touched too often to remain whole.
Last, a matchbook—Bunny’s. Half-empty. Waiting.