Arianne woke to the sound of someone moving quietly through the room.
The curtains had been drawn back just enough to let in the midday light, pale and warm across the bedspread. The smell of fresh linen and something faintly floraln and familiar—Aunt Estella's soap, the kind she had used for decades—drifted through the air. Arianne lay still for a moment, orienting herself. Franz's room. His bed. The sheets tangled around her legs. The pillow beside her empty but still holding the faint impression of his head.
Aunt Estella was tidying the nightstand, her movements efficient and quiet, the way she had moved through Arianne's life for as long as she could remember. She had been there when Arianne was born. She had been there through the exile and the return and the slow rebuilding of everything that had been broken. She was here now, in Franz's bedroom, folding a throw blanket that had slipped to the floor.
