A/N: Very angsty drabble that some people should not be reading. Turn back now.

TW: character death + depression

Anna holds her hand. The engine makes an enormous noise, roars into action. She holds her breath as she watches the car go around the corner. She feels rooted to the spot, unable to move though her knees wobble. The edge of her corset digs into her as she starts to slump. She tries to breathe, straightens up a bit, as much as she can.

The words wash over her, none of them reach her ears. Her heart beats heavily, achingly. Her throat is tight, constricted. There's the reassuring bulk of Mr Branson next to her. Lady Mary wears the hat and coat she saves for these occasions. She sits and stands mechanically with the rest of the congregation. She can't sing.

She has to think twice about what date it is and her signature looks wobbly on the dotted line. She puts the keys on the desk, allows herself to touch the keys one last time. The brass is cool under the tips of her fingers. She bites her lip, closes her eyes. She pushes back the chair and gets up, shakes hands.

Tea. Her favourite treats. Nothing tastes right. She chokes her toast down in the morning. The days are long, she hasn't enough work to fill the hours. Her eyes burn constantly from tears shed deep into the night. She takes long baths - scalding hot until she shivers, her skin wrinkled and thin.

Everything she does, everyone she sees remind her of that dream that came true and then was taken from her so cruelly. They ask her if she's alright and she says she will be. She knows she will, that she'll pull through, like she always wins every battle she fights. But her head hurts and she is tired. So tired.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe next week she'll feel more herself again. It will be alright. The awful thing is that pain demands to be felt and you cannot cheat it. She's stuck with it.