LiteraryFlash
The dust in the parlor caught the late afternoon light, suspending it like pollen in amber. She sat perfectly still — not because she was listening, but because any sudden movement might shatter the fragile geometry of the lie she had just constructed.
He was pacing now. The floorboards, warped by a century of damp winters, offered a hollow rhythm to his accusations. “You haven't packed,” he observed, stopping short by the glass vitrine.
“I haven't,” she agreed, her voice flat. “I decided the porcelain was too heavy to carry.”