He had left a year ago; yet his things remained. Untouched by even his mother; not entered since the day he left it. The handle was never touched until today.
A women, around her early 20s, knocked on the door of the Ketchum residence. Mrs. Ketchum, wearing her hair in a bun, a pink apron, and a weak smile, answered. Her eyes were puffy and red and her voice quavered when she said, "Misty. I'm so glad to see you, come in dear."
The woman nodded and stepped inside. The familiar scent of cinnamon wafted through the house as they made their way to the dining table. Misty settled into a chair while Delia walked to a steaming pot.
"Would you li
" " = speaking ' '= thoughts
A flower without a fragrance. Its petals bloomed silently and withers just the same. Right beneath your feet. It wasn't of importance. A flower that was stepped on countless of times and was left to heal on it's own. Alone. Worthless. Untalented flower.
Misty Tsubaki Waterflower. That's what I am.
"You know, mommy named you Tsubaki for a reason. She knew what you were 'fore you killed her."
'Stop...'
"Daddy couldn't even look at such trash, you're the reason he left!"
'Please. I don't want to hear it again.'
"Why are you even a part of this family? You should have never been born!"
'Don't make me remember.