Immortal Opal

Opal looked up at the black gloss double doors at thirteen queens road and inhaled deeply. All she could smell was sunflowers, they walled the house into a bright rectangle once. She knocks five times, the last knock harder and louder than the others, beating out familiarity –
“It’s just me!” She calls in a honey voice, a few decibels louder than the usual to make sure Amy can hear. At the end of the hall is a room striped with morning light and as she enters she pulls the curtains aside all of the way. Heavy draping blue velvet like the sea if you swim too far down for lungs to withhold. The west wall is bending with the weight of at least fifty frames, at least fifty destinations. Amy had seen so much, been so many places and it made Opal acutely aware of how she must feel to be stuck in bed here, in England, in the Autumn rain.
“Morning.”
Eyes still half steeped in sleep drip with wrinkles as Amy turns in bed to greet her. She smiles widely and flicks the kettle on, the familiar light bathing Amy in more blue, it evens her skin, hides the paper thin veiling only just covering the rivers of veins that have started to show. As the water bubbles it throws faint waves over her head where once hair shone golden.
Guten morgan Schonheit,”
Amy’s laugh is softly mocking, but it’s obvious she’s pleased.
“You never could get the accent right but ten out of ten for effort, meine liebe,”
Opal blushes with embarrassment, scoops three sugars into the china cup and stirs it with the clean end of yesterday’s butter knife. She would wash up, but soon there would be no need. Soon others would come to empty the house of everything Amy loves, everything she has collected over the years and god knows where it will go.

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