Ercilia stares down at the grave, fingertips ghosting over Guinevere's name, while Ruxandra stands still from behind.
She reaches a hand towards her but stops, considers, and then retracts. Cornflower haze scatters beneath them, lying between the threatening stance of distant firs.
"Sometimes…" Ruxandra began.
"I wonder what it would have been like if things were simpler – when we didn't know any better, when there wasn't any condition to all the care and love given to us."
Brewing in her words is a dark clip, an enduring regret eclipsing the calm in her expression. She tilts up her head, eyes on the clouds in the sky, and goes on to add, "We have a chance at that simplicity now. To live the way we want to live."
It's not that simple, Ercilia wants to say.
They can't just go back and pretend it never happened. Simply because it did. They can't deny this without invalidating all that they did in order to achieve this.
