Elizabeth opened her eyes, the cold air assaulting her vision. She squinted and waited for her body to shake off sleep before rising. Stretching luxuriously in the coolness of her bed sheets, she pulled herself into a sitting position. The floor beneath her bare feet was freezing and she quickly danced into the carpeted bathroom for a hot shower.
Sometime later, towel-bound and cheerful, she stepped into her tiny galley kitchen to brew a little tea and reheat yesterday’s muffin. The sunlight peeping through the long lace curtains at her window promised a beautiful day. She opened the curtains and seated herself in the large, cushioned armchair at the window. The muffin was soon consumed, the mug of tea drained, the sun had shifted in its course and the only sound reigning in the entire flat was silence, save for the quiet persistent ticking of the old-world clock on the mantle over the fireplace.
Stillness. Solitude. Not showing, just telling.
There was something to be said for living in exile, Elizabeth decided, closing her tired eyes as the sun invaded her view. Something vile.