Lachrymose

pronounced: lak-ruh-mohs

Heavy with sorrow,
Eyes that do not weep,
But hearts that drown in silence.
A soul cloaked in shadows—
Grieving in places no one sees.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

The soft bubbling of stew echoed through the empty kitchen. Wooden walls groaned quietly with the weight of time. She stood by the stove, stirring slowly, thinking about her lovely husband and blush covered her cheeks, her fingers slightly stirring the spoon, her face showing an excitement. Excitement of meeting her husband after 10 days of long years.

"Too much salt again," she whispered, tasting the edge of the spoon, her voice the only sound in the room.

She laughed to herself, a soft, echoing sound. "No one else is going to eat it anyway."

She moved like a shadow—quiet, deliberate—like someone used to hiding. The air inside the old farmhouse was heavy, thick with damp wood, and the faint scent of burning cumin. Outside, the wind whistled through broken windows and cracked doors, rattling doors like a ghost trying to come home.

With the stew left to simmer, she walked toward the bedroom, and taking her imagination with herself of her husband. Her hands reached up to her face—unfastening the mask. The straps snapped loose, falling softly against her cheek. She stared at it in her hand for a moment too long, before tossing it on the bed like it meant nothing.

Then she disappeared into the bathroom. The water started running. Hot. Loud. Comforting.

But something else moved behind the silence.

The bedroom door creaked open—slowly, almost lovingly. Boots stepped across the floor, heavy, careless. A man's silhouette passed through the room, his hands full of roses. Red. Deep. Musky. Too many to hold. AND HE WAS GONE. Really?

She stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wrapped in his shirt, wiping fog from her skin, her thoughts lost somewhere far. But the second she entered the bedroom—She froze. Not one. Not ten. Not even a hundred.

Roses.

Seven hundred and thirty exactly Seven hundred and thirty roses. Scattered across the bed, the floor, the table.

Scattered like chaos, like obsession.

Some arranged in perfect spirals, others carelessly thrown like rage in disguise.

And the last few… soaked.

In blood.

She saw it, the scene which clean a few minutes ago now making her feel puking the scene, the flowers, the smell of the room and the people behind the door which she don't want to imagine but she knew who he is. The scene screams only one thing:

HE FOUND HER.

Her breath hitched. Her chest clenched. Tears blurred her vision.

Every one loves roses but she, she never did. She hated it, her husband knows she hated it and he knows she hated it.

And still—he brought them.

The smell of blood, she didn't know whose blood. She didn't want to, She never wanted to.

The Rose, the symbol of love, romance, and new birth of two humans, right now is the symbol of DEATH.

A scream tore through her throat, jagged and raw. Her breath hitched, her chest collapsed inwards, heart thudding so violently she thought it might burst.

Her eyes are teary, he knows she hated this she hates the smell of blood, she hates roses still

he bring all this. SHE NEVER IMAGINED, this is life sometimes something came in our life which we don't imagine.

She stumbled back, crashing into the wall. Her hand clutched the edge of the doorframe as she fought the urge to vomit. The room spun. The roses, the blood, the scent—too familiar, too haunting.

He found her.
He knew where she was.
He won't let her live.
She didn't think twice.
The front door?
No.

Outside the front door, parked in the dirt like fate itself:
That car.
That color.

That cursed, rich red wine color.

She hated it. The way it shimmered like blood under the setting sun.
She hated that color, hated the smell, hated what it reminded her of.

Her past, she is hating now, it was knocking on the door.
Her present, she don't want to face, it was collapsed now.
And the future she feared would never come.

She ran.

Through the back door.
Barefoot ,Soaked, half-dressed in his shirt, and wholly consumed by fear.

The old farmhouse behind her.
The wind howling around her.
The scent of roses stuck to her skin.

And someone—no, they—were coming.

The wind screamed with her. The earth cut her feet. Her lungs burned, but she didn't stop. The car was following. Not fast. Not loud.

It was enjoying the chase.

She ran. As fast as her trembling legs would take her. The cold air slapped her face, her bare feet scraping against gravel and twigs. The old farmhouse disappeared behind her, but the fear still clung to her chest like claws.

Will she able to meet and tell him how much she loves her, today she realized how much she have feelings for him. WILL SHE?

WILL HE LISTEN TO HER or like every time she will get silence…

———–✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦———–

⎛⎝ ≽ > ⩊ < ≼ ⎠⎞

🌸✨ Author's Note ✨🌸

If you've made it this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

This chapter was a piece of my soul—soft, broken, healing, all at once.

🕊️ Which part of the chapter touched you the most?

💭 What part made you pause, smile, or ache a little?

I'd love to know your thoughts. Drop a comment and let me feel your heartbeat through your words. 🖤

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Let's stay connected beyond these pages—Follow me on Instagram for more story updates, behind-the-scenes, and writing vibes:📸

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Until next chapter,

—Mrs. Khan

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