Friday, March 14, 2014


No one answered when he knocked, so he opened the door and went in.
He smiled. Though he hadn't seen Arianelle for years, he knew her house when he saw it. The tiny pair of flats by the door, the shining dishes in the dish drainer, the spotless counters, the piano, the tactfully arranged portraits on her wall. It was a very small house, neat and comfortable all the same. Well-loved books filled a small shelf near the settee and winding stairs led to an upper story.
It was marked by her fingerprints to be sure, but the house was missing one thing.
It had felt strange when he first walked in, but now he knew for sure. The counters were too empty, the books too neat. And since when was her father rich enough to have his portrait drawn (and with darker hair, too)?
"Arianelle?" he whispered. He knew her like he knew his own hand, and he knew that she hadn't lived in this house for some time.
He ran his hand over the dust on the piano. Arianelle passionately waged war against dust every day, or every week at the least. This much would never be left to itself.
He heard a strange noise, and his heart began to pound. Not out of fear for himself – himself he could take care of. For her.
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