Esme slowly approached him. Seeing that he had already taken a seat, she bent her knees and settled quietly beside his chair. Her shoulder leaned lightly against his knees as she tilted her head, staring at the faint reflection of her own face on the curved surface of an alcohol bottle resting on the nearby table.
The woman reflected in the glass was beautiful. Too beautiful. The face carried striking features that looked almost sculpted, something ethereal enough to belong to a painting rather than a living person. Yet that face had never truly belonged to her, and deep down she knew it never would. What Morpheus saw when he looked at her was not Esme herself. It was someone else entirely.
She had long told herself that it did not matter.
And for a long time, she had truly believed that.
