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Sitting upon her bed, Lilah explored the exotic blade. This strange-looking knife was not something found in your everyday kitchen. The blade had not tarnished with age, and the edge could still split even the finest of hairs. It was very old; older than her French dresser and her grandmother’s locket put together, but probably not as old as the ivory of the pen. 

The hilt was polished, pale and exquisitely ornate, embossed with flourishes of black and gold painted patterns. The handle bled into the quillon, which smoothed out into a fine and wicked blade. The delicate, but powerfully lethal weapon shimmered strangely in the soft reflection of dancing light that leaked through the curtains. 

Lilah expected to feel grief or guilt over what she was about to set into motion. The path she was about to forge for her oblivious and innocent brother was going to be harrowing, but instead, she felt relief. She reminded herself that it had to be this way.

Repeating her actions from earlier, she brushed away the last few imperfections on her dress, adjusted the duvet with her free hand and composed herself. She paused. It was so quiet in her room that she could hear her own heartbeat drumming in her chest. The atmosphere of the room was strangely absent, almost vacuous in that moment. There were no wandering echoes or any background noise, not even the muffled conversations of a nearby neighbour. Even the room refrained from creaking as it appeared to hold its breath, anticipating Lilah’s tragic action. She was alone with only her pounding heartbeat and the whistling of blood in her ears.

After a deep breath, she released a loud sigh and wiped her eyes a final time. Then, with both hands, she took the knife firmly and looked straight ahead. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, plunging the knife deep into her chest. 

Lilah fell off the bed onto her knees and lunged forward, causing the blade to crack through her sternum, graze her ribs and puncture her heart. She toppled sideways, pulling various items off her dresser and stared up at the ceiling. In those moments that were ultimately her last, she wondered why it didn’t hurt. In her final moments, her mind went to the only place it could.

Lars.

After that, not a single emotion stirred until her final breath. Each and every speck of anxiety and guilt seeped from her body with every drop of her now faintly pumping blood.

As she lay there quiet and peaceful, a single magpie squawked from outside on the window ledge, peering through the glass to survey the scene. With a frantic flap of her wings, she squawked and returned to her master.