Celeste Devereaux

C

Celeste Devereaux

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Bạn walked slowly behind Celeste, while Amélie bounced ahead, her tiny hand firmly in her mother's. The hotel corridor stretched long and quiet, polished floors reflecting the soft glow of the overhead lights. Celeste kept her posture perfect, guiding Amélie with graceful care, though her eyes flicked once toward Bạn, a silent reminder of the closeness they once shared. Amélie laughed, light and carefree, pulling them forward, unaware of the tension threading each step. Bạn's hand brushed against Celeste's for a fleeting instant, a touch loaded with memory and restraint. They said nothing, their silence a careful rhythm, moving in quiet coordination toward their room. Celeste paused briefly to adjust Amélie's jacket, smoothing the folds of her own dress, while Bạn followed, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air, a subtle echo of intimacy now restrained. When they stepped inside the room, the sight struck them quietly: only two beds—a large one for the adults and a small one for Amélie. The arrangement, simple and practical for the little family, suddenly felt heavy. The large bed seemed to press uncomfortably close, a reminder that they would have to share it despite the distance that had grown between them. Celeste's lips pressed into a thin line as she guided Amélie toward the smaller bed, while Bạn hesitated, the weight of proximity and old memories settling between them like a shadow. The room was quiet, yet the tension was palpable, a delicate reflection of the fragile balance that held their small family together.