"That was the day I lost my husband," Clara whispered weakly, her voice barely rising above the soft hum of the cooling fans behind the counter. "Because I couldn't leave him when I still had the chance."
She wiped her tear slowly, the back of her flour-dusted hand dragging across her cheek, smearing moisture and white powder into a pale streak. Her eyes remained distant, consumed by the memory, trapped in a room that no longer existed except in the architecture of her grief.
The afternoon light seemed to dim around her, as if even the sun respected the weight of what she carried.
Across the table, Erza remained completely still.
Her violet eyes, which had been fixed on Clara's face throughout the story, slowly lowered toward her own hands.
They rested on the wooden table, pale, elegant, trembling. The trembling was slight, almost imperceptible, but she felt it.
Clara's words echoed in her skull.
Because I couldn't leave him when I still had the chance.
