Shadows Of Roses

As the days passed, Seraphina found herself drawn into the orbit of an enigmatic old woman named Amara. Thinking back, their first encounter felt like a turning point, etched into her memory as vividly as the day Adolphus had left. He'd gone with Marianne and her young son, Josh. It was mere hours after they'd left when Amara made her grand entrance, storming into the dimly lit room like a gale through an unlatched window.

"Useless bag of old bones!" Amara's voice cracked like a whip, reverberating off the low ceiling and scattering Seraphina's already frayed thoughts. The old woman's stout frame bristled with a peculiar combination of ire and determination.

At first glance, Amara was the kind of figure one might hesitate to trust—her sharp tongue and unapologetically blunt demeanour marked her as someone who rarely tempered her words. Yet there was an energy about her, a spark in her piercing eyes that hinted at depths unspoken.

Seraphina, caught off guard, instinctively clutched the swaddled infant closer to her chest. She turned, shielding the child as she narrowed her eyes at the unexpected visitor.

"Look at you," Amara scoffed, though her voice softened as her eyes took in the scene. "Oh, you poor thing." The words were a curious blend of gruffness and something almost resembling compassion.

Seraphina stiffened, her body a shield for the sleeping baby. Her trembling hands betrayed her nerves, but her gaze remained defiant, a silent message to the stranger: Do not come closer.

Amara noticed. She saw everything—every twitch, every flicker of fear behind the girl's determined eyes. For a moment, her expression wavered. It wasn't pity that softened her sharp features—Amara was not a woman given to pity—but something akin to understanding.

"I'm not here to steal your child," Amara said at last, her tone low but firm. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her hand gripping the wood as though she were steadying herself.

"Who are you?" Seraphina asked, her voice tight with suspicion.

Amara straightened, planting her hands on her wide hips with an air of authority. "Amara. Friend of that fool, useless old bag of bones you know him as Adolphus, though I've half a mind to throttle him for not saying anything until the last minute. Thoughtless, useless old bag of bones," she grumbled.

At the mention of Adolphus, Seraphina's defences faltered slightly, her shoulders easing by the smallest fraction. But she remained wary, watching as Amara stepped forward.

"Now," Amara continued, lowering herself into a rickety chair with a groan that sounded more from the chair than from her, "where's this little one I've heard so much about? The baby blessed by the heavens, he said."

After Alina was in the elder's arms, she noticed something was missing.

"Where are your shoes?" she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. Amara let out a dry chuckle, the sound both raspy and amused. "That old bag of bones had it coming," she said cryptically.

Later that day, as the sun dipped lower, its golden hues painting the horizon, Adolphus finally returned home. His silhouette cut a striking figure against the dying light, but as he stepped closer, something unusual caught her eye. Two large bumps protruded from his head, one on either side, as if he were sprouting horns. The sight was both startling and absurd.

"What happened to you?" she asked, her voice a mixture of concern and disbelief. Adolphus rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his mouth quirking into a reluctant grin. "Don't worry, Sera," he said, his tone dismissive but tinged with irritation. "It was an old senile witch. She's about to crone any day now, I swear."

For a moment, she just stared at him, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh bubbled up from deep within her—a genuine, unrestrained laugh, the kind she hadn't felt in ages. It burst forth, surprising even her, filling the space between them with a lightness.

Adolphus, still rubbing one of his bumps, looked at her with a wry expression. "Glad to see my suffering amuses you," he muttered, but the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his own amusement.

From that moment on, Amara would visit them both regularly, each time bringing a different fruit. "You need your strength to get better, yeah," she'd say in her lilting, reassuring tone, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to defy her years. Amara was a peculiar elderly woman, her presence as soothing as it was enigmatic.

Whenever she and Adolphus were in the same room, they would always bicker, going back and forth like an old married couple. The back-and-forth was endless, sometimes even humorous, and the way they spoke to each other was filled with a playful sort of disdain. Seraphina had never truly seen the joy in such exchanges until now. As she lay recovering, she realized that their constant teasing and squabbling filled the tiny home with life, making it the happiest she'd ever been. Despite the discomfort, the bickering somehow brought her peace—a comfort she had never expected to find.