(no subject)
River's in her nightgown, but the light in her room is still on. She's standing in front of her tiny closet, head bowed, looking at the willowgreen ring she holds in one hand. There's a bit of paper with it, folded small.
Eventually, her head lifts. She runs the fingers of her free hand down the sleeve of the brown coat hanging in her closet, drifts her fingertips along the tiny stitches hemming the cuff, and spreads a pocket wide. There are a few things already in this pocket: a black handkerchief, a tiny ankh of what might be iron. The ring joins them, and so does the scrap of paper.
And then River turns away, sliding the closet door shut with absent fingers, and sits down on her bed.
Eventually, her head lifts. She runs the fingers of her free hand down the sleeve of the brown coat hanging in her closet, drifts her fingertips along the tiny stitches hemming the cuff, and spreads a pocket wide. There are a few things already in this pocket: a black handkerchief, a tiny ankh of what might be iron. The ring joins them, and so does the scrap of paper.
And then River turns away, sliding the closet door shut with absent fingers, and sits down on her bed.