An old woman let her robe fall—but only far enough to stir his silence. The fabric slipped from one shoulder, a slow slide that exposed the pale curve of collarbone and the faint tracery of veins beneath skin. Not indecent, not even bold—just enough to make his breath catch, his hands pause mid-pour of her tea.
She’d been sitting by the fire, her knees drawn up, when the robe loosened. No hurry, no fanfare, just a lazy adjustment that turned into something deliberate. Her fingers toyed with the sash, not pulling it tight, letting the material gape a little wider. He tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed, focusing on the teacup, but his peripheral vision clung to that sliver of skin.
This wasn’t about allure, not in the way youth understands it. It was about memory—stirring the quiet places where he’d stored the image of her younger self, the way sunlight used to catch her shoulders, the sound she made when he’d traced that same collarbone with his lips. She knew silence could be heavier than words, that a single exposed shoulder could say more than any declaration: I am still here. Still yours. Still worth noticing.
When he finally looked up, she met his gaze, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The robe stayed where it fell. He set down the teapot, his hands trembling slightly, and crossed the room. Some gestures don’t need responses. They just need to be acknowledged.