@unquantifiablx
A storm was passing over Westchester County, wild and volatile; and in that respect, it reminded her of him. She was glad as ever that he’d returned, bruised and battered, yes, but not dead. She had spent the week in a state of anxiety, nearly burning a hole in the carpet from her incessant pacing. Twice she had considered going to find him, and twice she had talked herself out of it.
A couple of days. That was the proposed length of the mission. But the days slipped by and Wanda became deeply unsettled. The only thing that had kept her from chasing after him was a deep-seated notion that whatever he had gotten himself into, it had not killed him. It was a similar feeling she got when he was nearby, a pull of sorts, as though there was an invisible thread connecting them. A vibration resonated through her, much like that of a plucked harp string, indicating his presence, his vitality. She could feel the vibration then, though profoundly faint, and she had known he was alive.
It felt like a lifetime since they sat on her bed, a lifetime since she ran her fingers through messy silver curls and said silent prayers for his safety. She rested her cheek on the cool of the library window, watching heavy drops of rain smatter on the glass. Without much thought, she teleported to the hall before the commons. He was alone. She could see the back of his head and broad shoulders from his position on the couch, could practically visualize the furrow in his brow. She went to him. “Ceva bun pe?” she asked softly, motioning to the television. Her fingers found purchase in his hair once more, delighted to feel the utter realness of him. Not a vision, not a dream. Real. Safe.
