The carriage rattled over uneven cobblestones as Celia sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap. Across from her, her son fidgeted with the sleeve of his slightly too-large coat, his small fingers tugging at the fabric absentmindedly. The silence between them was thick, awkward, and heavy with unspoken words. Celia's gaze lingered on him, taking in the way his thin shoulders hunched slightly, as though bracing against a weight he shouldn't have to carry.
She hadn't held his hand often in his life—barely at all, truthfully—but now she reached out, taking his rough little hand in hers as they neared their destination. His skin was calloused, too rough for someone so young, and the realization made her throat tighten. There were days she'd been so far gone in the haze of the red liquid that she barely noticed him, leaving him to fend for himself. That thought clawed at her now, a faint prickle of guilt she couldn't quite ignore.
