Winter's Whisper

Isla sat alone on a bench that smelled faintly of sugar and grease, tucked just off the main promenade. Her boots didn't touch the ground. Her expression, composed and pale, radiated the kind of stillness usually reserved for statues in war memorials.
Around her, the crowd surged and babbled, but Isla barely moved. She hated this place. It wasn't the noise. Or the lights. Or the smell of fried crustacean dipped in hot tar sauce, although that was deeply upsetting. It was the people - laughing too loud, eyes glazed from cheap euphoria, hands sticky with sweets and false freedom. They had no idea what war was. Or silence. Or the feeling of your mother disappearing inside her own mind.
Lorn had left her here like some wayward pet, muttering something about "childhood" and "fresh air" before vanishing into the crowd with the effortless guilt of a man who had once burned down a village to save it. He'd pawned her off on a friend. Aiden, apparently.
So Isla sat. And waited. And watched.
She saw lovers trying to be subtle. She saw a pickpocket decide against a mark because her boyfriend was too twitchy. She saw a girl, maybe five, about to drop her candy and pre-emptively start crying. She saw a fortune-teller who didn't believe in the Force but still made a decent living off it.
And far away, in her mind's quiet corner, she felt Lorn - half-focused, distracted, angry about something he wasn't admitting. She nudged him gently. Not a word. Just a whisper of thought. I'm here, waiting. You're not, as usual.
She looked back to the crowd. Her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes drifted upward as the fireworks began, brilliant and loud.
She didn't flinch.
Let Aiden come, whoever he was.
But maybe… he'd understand her silence.
Or at the very least, not ask her to ride the Ferris wheel.