Brielle is not the one that is (ouverte) wrote in rooms,
Everything was different now. Nothing would be as it had been. There was no going back. If Brielle intended to live out of storage units and suitcases, it she wanted to live off of scraps and sorrow, she was free to do so. Nora had other designs. If she'd ever not been, she wasn't aware of it. It seemed like she'd always been staring out of such sweet hazel eyes. She'd always been inside, stuck and screaming while the world moved on, treasonous, without her. There were so many years when she'd been unable to do anything, unable to move. She'd only been able to watch, was forced into the shoes of witness, unblinking response to the horrors of the world.
Funny, how all it took was a little snap and the fabric of reality to let her loose. The pulse had put about a crack in the floor, just big enough to let her fall through like a little girl down a rabbit hole. And now she was upright and standing, she was the strong one. She did not have to suffer slings and arrows, she could cast them.
Footsteps drew her attention with a snap, bitter witch-hazel blossoming into some contemplative when recognition cracked the whip and made memories crawl. She'd been playing with a lighter. Open and close, its little metal hinge snapped loud, reminiscent of a crocodile's teeth when threatened. She was sitting on the bottom of the twirly slide, booted toes wearing down dead grass. Her sleeves were long black cotton, and it wouldn't be comfortable to wear such winter gear for much longer this season, but she liked the hood, which was down and slouched around her neck currently. She stared for a moment, and it wasn't a friendly look when she flicked the lighter again.
"Hello, Wren." There was no whisper of French in the words, no warmth.