There is no warning rattle at the door. No scent of myrtle creeps through the keyhole to signal the approach of magic or increase the wild thumping of a solitary heart. There is no dimming sense of the light going, no cloying surge of terrified spittle surging upward.
There is just The Fade.
She is tired of the struggle and finds the Fade more and more comforting each time it comes. HE tells her not to give way to it, to fight, to hope for more. But he is not here now. And the Fade is. She lies back into its grasp and exhales gratefully.
It is a very long time before she inhales again.
But finally she does, and blinks and swallows and notices for the first time the little female jaybird who peers through her window past the Valentine heart. She thinks a bird looking in the window portends bad luck. She knows that a Valentine heart does.
Is there any reason to try a bit longer? Is there even a chance of more? Or is it finally time to give way to the inevitable dance among the ruins?
She does not know. He is not here. She is listening for a rattle at the door.
Written for Zero to Hero, Day 22: Try (Another) Blog Event. I chose the Yeah Write Speakeasy Fiction Challenge from prompts provided here.