@landsbluod, oh, and I've prayed for times like these...!
[ MOVIE - MELODRAMA ] or [ MOVIE - ROMANCE ]
Her fingers curled around the crook of her daughter's elbow, and at the girl's turn, Lachesis' face dawned into a smile that had become nearly customary for greeting. Rather than any words, simply the pure beam of bliss, warming her from root to crown and radiating outward.
"I could not have expected such a thing, but if you've no where else to be presently, would you...like to watch one of the reproductions? I do not mind which - oh, but not the tragedy, I think that we are done with tears, don't you?"
Nanna’s face softened immediately beneath her mother’s smile, as though warmed by a hearth she had spent years searching for without realizing it. The feeling never quite lost its wonder—that Lachesis looked at her now with such open joy, so freely offered it almost startled her each time anew.
Her hand settled gently atop her mother’s where it rested at her elbow.
“…I actually watched the romance one. Did you know it was a tragedy, too?” Nanna agreed at once, laughter and jest feather-light beneath the words. “If anyone attempts to make us cry this evening, I think we should be permitted to leave halfway through on principle alone.”
Still, curiosity drew her gaze toward the glowing hall where the reproductions played in flickering strips of impossible life.
“…Though this one sounds rather romantic already,” she admitted as they stepped inside together. Grasping her by the arm, she wrapped both of hers around her mother's. Their bouquets glided against each other. She made a quick game of swapping flowers while they got seated, humming as the lights began to change.
The room dimmed around them in soft blue shadow, and soon light bloomed across the screen before them: towering stained glass awash in jewel-toned sunlight, a solitary glass artist bent lovingly over his work. Then the figure within the glass itself—a woman wrought in brilliant color and careful devotion, beautiful enough to ache for.
Nanna watched quietly at first, utterly transfixed by the movement of it all. The shifting light across the actress’ face looked almost holy.
The stained-glass maiden vanished from the cathedral window entirely, only to appear moments later slipping through the artist’s open window beneath moonlight.
Nanna gasped softly before she could stop herself.
“…Oh,” she breathed, fingers curling instinctively against Lachesis’ sleeve. “Mother, that is terribly lovely.”
Her eyes remained fixed upon the moving picture, bright with wonder now.
“There is something sad about it too, I think,” she murmured after a moment. “To love something so deeply you almost pray it into becoming real.”
Then, quieter still, touched by a kind of reverence:
“…Though perhaps all love is a little like that.”
