Will Bear the Moon
The golden walls seem to shrink around her, suddenly looking ornamental and small, like a dollhouse built for her amusement and not our inhabitance.
She smiles as she approaches—but it is the wrong kind of smile. Not warm like the ones she used to give me just days before, when she would burst through my doors, with stolen sweets and whispered secrets. Not like the breathless laughter that would escape her after one of her own terrible jokes that I never quite understood but laughed at anyway. This smile is tilted wrong, twisted at the angle of her chin, all visible white flash of teeth that gleam like bleached bone in the morning light. A smile meant for herself more than me, worn like armo
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