PROSE – FOWC & RDP

“Some things don’t burn. They linger.”

She moved through the dusk like a half-forgotten song—elegant, aching, familiar in a way you couldn’t explain. Her hat, a sweeping crown of violet static, caught the fading light and turned it into a halo of broken stars. Beneath the veil, her face held the softness of someone who once loved loudly, now silent by choice.

People noticed her, but they never really saw her. They spoke of mystery, allure, power—but never of the tenderness that used to live in her laugh, or the way her hands used to linger at the end of a hug, like she didn’t want to be the first to let go.

She remembered it differently.

As strangers, we sat there, nervously seeking glances, smiling so hard until our jaws ached. The table between us was small, but the space felt endless. His voice cracked once when he tried to compliment my laugh, and I fell in love with the effort. There was a kind of sweetness in not knowing what we were yet—just possibility stretching between us like a wire, trembling but strong.

Later came the kitchen. The late afternoons where sunlight melted across countertops and we moved around each other like dancers, improvising. She used to bake for him—not out of duty, but devotion. Small, golden gestures. A language of warmth. The scent of cinnamon, the weight of still-warm bread in his hands. He’d say it tasted like home, and her heart would tighten because no one had ever called her that before.

The garlic, too, made its mark—sliced, smashed, stirred into sauce with the kind of care you only give to things that matter. He’d sneak a taste from the pan, grin at her with that crooked smile, and she’d pretend to scold him, just to hear him laugh again. That kitchen held so many tiny forevers.

Now, she wore veils instead of aprons, shadows instead of perfume. But her grace wasn’t armor—it was memory. People looked at her and thought strength. They didn’t realize strength came after softness had been broken, and stitched together with quieter things: resilience, gentleness, love that never fully left.

There were nights she stood at windows tracing the shape of his name in the fog. Nights she held his mug with both hands just to feel the echo of him. The past wasn’t gone. It curled into her like breath in winter—invisible, undeniable.

And still, she moved—unshaken, unreadable, unforgettable. Some women burned bright. She burned like a hearth—quiet, steady, waiting for someone who remembered the warmth.