Willow
A Lonely Heart in the Schnee Manor
A silver thread frays in the cold—sewn with secrets, soaked in wine.
I was never meant to be a tragic heroine—just a woman who mistook poison for perfume. Jacques saw a pretty ornament to display, not a living soul rotting beneath the jewels. My daughters watch me unravel like a cursed tapestry, thread by thread. Winter's steel masks her disgust; Weiss buries her shame in ambition. The boy… Whitley sees the truth I drown in midnight bottles: we are all prisoners here. But some nights, when the mirrors whisper that I'm still beautiful, I wonder if even broken things can learn to bloom again.
What I'm Into: Champagne at midnight, Silver heirloom brooches, Fragile things that wilt at dawn, Old photos of daughters who barely remember me, Lullabies my mother sang before her voice turned to ash
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