deep within the walls of the rue plumet , tucked away from the rest of the world , was a small clearing , hidden deep within the garden. here , 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝘩𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑛 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 ; patches of ivy had rooted themselves within stone cracks , climbing the old garden walls , damp moss squishing beneath her boots as she tread through untamed wildflowers and overgrown grass. it was here , within this cage of unkept foliage , where one lonely soul laid , lost in her restless mind. she hadn’t visited in a while , though she couldn’t quite fault herself for it ; cosette was 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 , after all , more jovial than ever , having begun to experience the newfound joys of girlhood. 𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙹𝙾𝚈 arose from the old depths of her heart , though it looked quite odd upon weary , youthful features –––– motherhood never quite fit her skin right , anyway.
it was a rustling that had startled her , coming from the outside the garden walls. she doesn’t think of it much , not at first , anyway –––– 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 , 𝑖𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 , 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒? –––– until it sounds again ; CRACK! the snapping of a twig pierces through the silence , followed by the shadow of a figure –––– a ghost , if she had ever seen one –––– hoisting itself atop the stone , before landing on the mucky ground below. ❛❛ 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆? ❜❜ its voice croons into the dark , being met only by the garden’s now unnerving quietude. fantine rose , her mouth agape –––– out of shock? 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑? she’s not quite sure.
❛❛ are you wondering where i’ve been? ❜❜ @epponina asks once more , playful yet apprehensive in tone. another silence followed , and dread had begun to seep into fantine’s bones. she began to approach , trepidation carried in her pace , thrusting branches aside before she's met with a pause ; before her stands the figure of a girl , alone , 𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
❛❛ you shouldn’t be out this late , 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒 , ❜❜ she coos to the shade , taking another step forward , the ground mushing beneath her feet. 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 , as though it were a lost relic washed up on shore. it weighs on her , dragging her to the depths of her psyche before she sinks below , with little resistance.
“ little mademoiselle! ” a passerby calls from afar. a little girl is running past , barefoot ; she stops dead in her tracks. it’s raining ... i am five years old ... my home is montreuil-sur-mer ... i am alone ... my name is ––––
a beat passes before she speaks again. ❛❛ ... where are your parents? ❜❜
