“You’re the only one who can make it,” Liam said. I could almost hear the absence of saliva.
My predecessor had chosen a fine time to die: three days before I officially became her pupil and began my training. We hadn’t seen rain since the funeral and now, the sun was hotter than I had ever felt.
“She told me the key was a precarious balance of feelings.”
“Like a battered pink ribbon, floating in the wind.”
The image struck a chord between beauty and despair. And one by one, the raindrops bathed my broken heart.
This story was written based on this prompt.