Crawling

We got back to Elliot's house just as the sun began to dip low in the sky. The golden light spilled through the windows like honey, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily through the room. Most of the guests had gone. Only a few relatives remained, talking in hushed tones or tidying the living room, their movements heavy with exhaustion and grief.

Mrs. Betty sits by the kitchen counter, her hands wrap around a half-empty mug of tea. She looks up as we enter, her face still swollen from crying, but her eyes clearer now. Rested. Fed. Maybe even comforted, in the smallest way grief allows.

Elliot excuses himself to go upstairs and grab his things. We plan to take the late train back to Laudeith tonight. We already missed today's classes.

I approach her quietly. "Mrs. Betty ... we're about to go."