The house smells pleasant as Eliana finishes watering the flower pots of wolfsbane, the vases made of silver.Along the mantle, Ivy’s life is laid out in quiet order. Her round baby face is captured mid-laugh. Her first birthday, frosting smeared everywhere. A blurry photo of her clutching her toes, startled by her own joy.The years move forward without asking permission.Twelve, braces, too much lipstick, defiance sharpened by insecurity.Sixteen, holding a basketball trophy she insists does not matter, even as her fingers curl tight around it.Twenty-three, college cap and gown, standing between Eliana and Elias, their arms locked around her a little too firmly, as if loosening their grip might make her slip through their fingers and vanish.Maybe they knew something even then.Plants crowd every corner, ferns in ceramic pots, ivy trailing down bookshelves, succulents clustered on windowsills. Some are ordinary. Others have small things tucked into the soil. A smooth river stone. A
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Mag-log in
