At The Village
Cyrus' hands were trembling again.
Not from fear.
Not from anger.
From exhaustion.
He sat in the center of the half-built wooden structure, carving smooth curves into what would become a cradle. A cradle he imagined Isabella touching with her soft hands. A cradle he imagined her staring at with quiet awe. A cradle he hoped would make her smile, even for a heartbeat, even if she hated him now.
His fingers dragged along the edge of the wood. He lifted it gently to inspect his work. The shape was perfect, but his hands… his hands looked nothing like the hands he used to have. There were faint blue veins glowing beneath his skin. His complexion had faded like moonlight, pale and thin. His eyelids drooped.
He had not slept properly in days.
Weeks, actually.
