Work Text:
She wishes she could be anywhere but here. What an interrogation room she’s in: The table is bare of any cloth to decorate it, light betwixt in through the curtains threadlike and faint. Grani is still blinking the sleeping grit out of her eyes, though she’s shaken off that early morning bliss that others claim is so unusual (“Who actually likes mornings?” she’s heard.).
“Is everything okay, Grani?”
Carol enters, soft-eyed. Her slippered steps thud upon the wooden floor. A heavy, deadening weight lifts itself off from her heart. My savior.
“I really hate filling out all of these taxes.”