Time, Severine found, was an abstract term. There was no way to measure it.
At times, she would blink, and hours would pass. Then there were moments like this—when she stared at the pristine ceiling, yet the clock refused to move.
The darkness had blanketed the earth. Through the drawn curtains, faint moonlight spilled onto the other side of the bed.
Severine placed her hand there, curling her fingers as if she were catching the silvery shine.
Catching the moonlight.
She used to play this silly game with someone. Though the memory was hazy, she remembered it was another child.
After nightfall, they would hide together in the cupboard, sneaking away from bedtime.
Then they would try to catch those misty wisps, giggling at the meaningless game.
As she grew up, her mother's control over her time increased. Every little minute was planned.
Soon, she had no time to hide in the cupboards.
Little Severine fell from the horse for the sixth time that day.
