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ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ғᴏᴜʀ 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑆𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑙𝑦
❦
The sun was warm, filtered through the windows with a clean, amber glow, bathing the small kitchen walls in its colour. The sweet smell of leftover pastries filled the air, a gift from the old, greek lady who lived in the apartment below. The whole scene was serene, calm, just as Maria had always wanted. Here, there was no worry tainting the day with its grey murk, and certainly no sadness to bring her down to its low level.
Perhaps in a few weeks, she would find it within herself to feel the heavy sense of guilt dragging down her each movement, but it had already been weeks; long, aimless weeks in which the piles of letters had been stacking up beside her door. Elena had been relentless, understandably so. More than a year had passed with no word. Somewhere, deep down, Maria knew she was being even a little selfish. Elena too had lost a husband, just as she had lost a brother. But none of them was blameless. Maria deserved to be selfish.
It was for Lucia's sake. A girl born of Changretta blood would never have it easy. A curse, Maria once called it, had been placed on her the moment she took her first breath. Poisoned blood, battered breaths, whatever had given them such misfortunes had also blessed Maria. A child was all that she wanted, and now a child was all that she would get.
The girl was beautiful at seven months old, with bright green eyes and a charming smile. Maria had been so in love with her daughter that not a thought had been spared toward Arthur. Her life was lived in content peace. Early mornings were often spent by the sea, browsing the stalls at the market or sitting on the coarse sand, just letting the young child hear the sound of the waves and learn the colours of the waves.
On evenings, Maria would read, just as her mother had never done with her. They would be stories of princesses or of animals in enchanted forests. Lucia liked birds. On the balcony, sat on her mother's knee, her hands would reach out, souring and flashing, giggling as she did so. Maria would laugh, cuddling her closer, moving her own hand through the air. She thought it was fitting, that her daughter would want to be as unrestricted as the birds. They were happy, safe, free.
But then the call came.
Lucia let out a shrill cry as the telephone rang in the front room like a blaring alarm.
"Hush, baby," Maria soothed, dabbing at her cheeks with a sleeve. The young girl calmed for a second as her mother left to retrieve the phone. "Yes?"
"Maria."
Polly Gray's voice seemed to echo throughout the room despite its quietness as if she was standing in the very doorway of the kitchen. Maria's stomach lurched. She clutched the phone in her hand, holding it steadily by her ear as she remained silent.
