Weeds

I stand behind my master, watching as he rises gracefully from the bed, his movements elegant, deliberate, almost otherworldly in their serenity. His beauty is like that of a rare bloom, untouched by the harshness of the world. Even now, with the room still tense from the tears he shed earlier, there is something calming about him.

As he steps toward the vanity and sits in front of the massive mirror, the soft glow of the setting sun catches on his flawless skin. I watch as he delicately dips his fingers into a jar of ointment, applying it beneath his eyes with careful precision. His face, serene and composed, betrays nothing of the grief I had seen only moments ago. It's as if it never happened.

"You don't talk much, do you, Doris?" Noelle's voice, soft and velvety, breaks the silence. He doesn't turn to look at me, but I can see the faint curve of his lips in the reflection, his eyes still focused on his own reflection.