Anastasia’s bereavement was up. Flying home she held no space for her grief. Once in her studio she allowed herself only a few silent tears over her suitcase. She methodically removed her funeral heels. In her periphery a light moved across her mirror and her breath caught in her throat. She looked up into the glass and saw her mother, unscathed, smiling softly back at her. She thought she might come, just as her grandmother had, only a year earlier. She just had not expected her so soon.
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