❝ every offering is a confession. ❞ francesca and rose!
The weight of it in rose’s palm is nothing — A pressed flower, maybe a ribbon, something small enough to be accidental. She doesn’t look at it yet but at the gentleman who walked away after gifting it so... kindly, prompting francesca's remark. She wanted to roll her eyes at it but instead er eyes stay on the woman across from her, at the careful way francesca holds her spine straight and her hands still. Somewhere behind them, a cigar smolders in a crystal tray, a thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling. Rain taps the window glass, soft and persistent, and the room smells of old paper, damp wool, and something floral that’s fading.
Rose turns the object over once. Twice. The petal beneath her thumb is brittle as old skin. ❝ A confession of what? It can't be love. Strangers don't love strangers so naturally. ❞ She prompted, wishing to throw the gift away but knowing her mother's hawk eyes were on her, somewhere in the house. She thinks of all the things she has handed people — a sketch, a glass of champagne, the hollow of her throat in moonlight— and how none of them were ever just what they seemed, but a well put façade.
❝ These confessions don't interest me, at all. If one of them were to know we're bankrupt then all would flee away. ❞ She added annoyed, looking into francesca's doe eyes and knowing that perhaps she understood, a little, as usual. Rose took the ribbon and tied it on the other's wrist, smiling as she did so. ❝ Here, this is my confession for you, then. ❞