"I need to see her."
"But..."
"She hates dirt," Killian muttered, staring at his disheveled reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Bath... yes, I need a bath."
The thought took hold, and he rushed toward his room, nearly tumbling over a laundry basket that rolled into his path.
He washed with frantic haste. The cold water did little to drown the phantom scent of iron and decay that had clogged his senses.
He repeatedly shook his head, splashing water across the tiles, desperate to shake the visceral images away. Yet they hung in his periphery, demanding he acknowledge them.
"It's fine," he whispered, meeting his own heavy gaze in the glass. "I will go down, and she will be there. She will always be there."
Donning a shirt and pairing it with jeans, he walked down the stairs, taking the chance to think it through.
He found her downstairs, a silhouette dressed in a purple skirt against the morning light.
