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Summary
Christ, what he’d give to slip out of this week and drop into somewhere else. What he’d do to take the heaviness from his muscles, let them float with as much ease as a corpse drifting atop the roll of waves.
It’s not like he hasn’t dealt with worse, but god does he hate the monotony. The constant effort to drag his feet through mud just to reach the next trench, the next day, and start it all over again.
He sighs and turns to the kitchen, ready to drag out the pot of leftover soup from a couple nights ago and settle for a ‘quick, brainless solution for weary muscles’ kind of a meal, but the sight that meets him at the end of the turn stops him in his tracks. A tightness slashes through his heart, something sharp and hot that he can’t name as he stares forward.
There, on the countertop, a plate is laid out, freshly cooked, still warm, arranged neatly in a visible sign of another’s care, their desire to make a meal mean more than just a chore. A still-life of present energy, painstakingly painted just for him to sink into its brushstrokes.
And sitting in a loose, unassuming loop around the plate, is piano wire.