She was locked away in her chambers, hiding from the sounds of life and the disease within her house. The woman stared out the window, golden sunlight streaming in, warming the wooden floors and bed. The sheets and furs of her bed were sun-warmed. The lady stared at that piece of furniture, willing its lines to be filled by his body, the pillows and blankets disturbed by his form. The sun touched his hair and the sun smiled on the creases in his face.
Uncalled for, tears filled her eyes, blurring the sunny and silent vision of that imaginary moment. She blinked. She looked again to the bed and he was gone. Her room was once again cold and the sunlight hollow without him. Penelope cried out, wanting the whole world to cry while she mourned, longing for times that no longer graced the eyes, lingering only in the mind. She wanted him to cry until he joined her again, his arms around her body, the warm sunlight drying their tears.
But for now it would be cold. She was frozen in her rooms until he entered them again, a flame in the winter of life. Penelope would remain an ice woman, a beautiful sculpture, a picture of life waiting for the fire to cleanse home and love again.