Storm
sighed and brushed the memory away.
Looking around, she realized everyone had left. Storm was the last one standing – in more
ways than one. Aunt Trin was gone. Aunt Trin who taught Storm about the visions,
how to track and interpret them, and most importantly how to recover from the
pain of one. Aunt Trin who’d taught her
the craft and raised Storm after her mother gave up on life. Aunt Trin who was being lowered into the ground,
the grinding of gears echoing through the graveyard. The stargazer lilies on the top of her coffin
were wilting in the heat. Sweat dripped
off Storm’s brow. She wondered briefly
if the sheen gave the appearance of tears.
Trin would have liked that. The
tears simply would not come, they never had.
Most people thought her heartless.
She didn’t understand it, couldn’t change it, wasn’t even sure if she
wanted to. Aunt Trin had told her time
and again that there was a reason for her emotional paralysis. Storm just wished she could summon a few
tears for the only person she’d ever cared about.
Even though she can't shed tears, I feel her pain in this snippet. Nicely done.
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