Her dreams have been calm, and metallic.
Cassandra stays in her room at Hermes' temple much of the time, spending her days with books and spindles and plants. There are half-finished projects and half-read novels scattered around, and on the dresser rests a water pitcher that hasn't held water in weeks. The wrinkled quilt on the bed has a fine layer of dust.
The room is golden-white this evening. She sits by the window and reads, but she can't concentrate on the words. Her fingers twitch and she shifts in her chair, finally standing up, letting the book fall to floor. It wasn't important; she knows the story by heart.
She paces and whispers and watches the sunset through the window. Things aren't changing.
Cassandra reaches for the phone on the table and dials an old, familiar number.
She smiles.
The room is golden-white this evening. She sits by the window and reads, but she can't concentrate on the words. Her fingers twitch and she shifts in her chair, finally standing up, letting the book fall to floor. It wasn't important; she knows the story by heart.
She paces and whispers and watches the sunset through the window. Things aren't changing.
Cassandra reaches for the phone on the table and dials an old, familiar number.
She smiles.