Eaves
Doctor Lin had lost weight recently. Her cheekbones, once rounded, now felt a bit sharp to the touch. Being a doctor herself, she knew it wasn't just fatigue; it was something weighing on her mind, draining her spirit. What was it? Her child was gone. That past summer, a sudden illness, and they couldn't save him.
With the child gone, the apartment felt empty, and cold. It had been a nice two-bedroom apartment, south-facing, with an old pagoda tree outside the window. In summer, it offered lush green shade; in autumn, its pagoda flowers littered the ground. When he was still around, he liked watching ants move their homes on the windowsill. Doctor Lin stood in the living room. Sunlight streamed in, dust motes dancing in the beams. But his laughter seemed to linger in the corners; she'd turn her head, and there was nothing. This apartment... she couldn't live here anymore.