(Isobel's Point Of View)
Camille packed the car in the driveway and turned to me, "You look like you need a couch, a blanket, and carbs."
"I need all three," I muttered as I stepped out of the car and walked into the house. The air inside smelled faintly of coffee and lemon polish; the light through the kitchen window made the counters gleam.
For the next few days, she let me float through her space without pressure. I worked from her dining table, the wood cool under my forearms, helped her cook dinner—chopping, stirring, setting plates—sat with her while she watched her crime documentaries, the television's blue light painting the ceiling. It felt safe. Quiet. But the quiet also made it harder to escape the things I tried to push away: the echo of his laugh, the weight of the lilies, the memory of his smile turned accusing in the gallery.
On the second morning, a soft knock came at the door. Camille opened it, then yelled, "Izzy! Another one!"
