( @devostarters ) shrike point library.
HAVING abandoned their dutiful position at front desk - they'll forgive her, surely, for the misdeed - the trailing fragrance of a funeral home ( powdery and a little sweet - too much so, the kind that lays flat and parallel with indigestible grief ) betrays tamsin's whereabouts, three aisles away. her eyes swept upwards, frown firm upon her lips as chin points farther and farther up - books encased behind glass, iron key clasped between gloved fingers; can still feel the heat amassing, slow but sure - like a hand hovering over stove, waiting for the burn. the slightest sigh, still heavy in her chest, the only indication she isn't living statue - turns to the only other in the aisle, movement almost jarring, frown louder than before, "give me your shoulders." more demand, than request - key turned between fingers and pointing near - accusatory towards them.