Page 20 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Did you know," she said to the empty room, as if practicing casual conversation, "that I used to hide these from Magnolia?She'd tell Rowan I wasn't focused enough if she caught me reading anything but dance biographies."
Her fingers lingered on a photo frame, still face-down in her luggage.
With hesitation, she lifted it — a picture of her parents, taken years before they passed.
"I think you would understand why I had to leave," she whispered, placing the frame on the bedside table. "You always said happiness shouldn't hurt."
From her toiletry bag emerged a small bottle of perfume — the one possession Rowan had never chosen for her.
"My scent, not his," she declared, setting it on the dresser.
Each item found its place — clothes in drawers, a hand-knit blanket across the foot of the bed, a sketchbook, and pencils on the small desk by the window. No luxury items, nothing from her former Alpha, nothing that reminded her of the stage.
Marigold paused, suddenly aware that she was humming — a simple, unfamiliar melody.
When had she last made music purely for herself?
"New space, new rhythms," she said softly, smoothing her hand over the bedspread. "New Marigold."
The empty suitcase she slid under the bed—not discarded, but no longer needed for immediate escape. This cottage, with its crooked doorframes and worn floorboards, wasn't just shelter.
It was becoming home.
As twilight descended,Marigold pulled a wooden chair to the west-facing window.
The fading light cast long shadows across the garden she'd explored earlier. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, watching as the sky transformed from blue to a canvas of amber and rose.
"I used to miss sunsets," she murmured, tracing a finger along the windowpane. "Always in rehearsal when the day ended."
The cottage grew quiet as the light shifted, painting the walls in warm hues that reminded her of the theater — but without the suffocating pressure that had become her constant companion.
"Is this what normal people do?" she asked the empty room, a small smile playing on her lips. "Just...watch the day end without counting how many fouettés they managed beforehand?"
Her ballet instructor's voice echoed in her memory:
Time spent idle is potential wasted, Marigold.
"No," she countered aloud. "This isn't idle. This is... living."
The colors deepened overhead — fiery orange melting into dusty pink, with strokes of purple emerging at the edges. So different from the artificial lighting of the stage, yet no less magnificent in its composition.
Marigold leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool glass.
"I chose this," she whispered, her breath forming a small cloud on the window. "Not Rowan. Not Magnolia. Me."
A familiar tightness squeezed her chest as her twin's name crossed her lips. They had once been inseparable — before ballet, before Rowan, before ambition had corroded what should have been unbreakable.
"Why wasn't I enough for either of you?" The question hung in the air, unanswered.
As darkness settled, Marigold finally pulled herself away from the window.
She moved through the cottage with the practiced grace that years of dance had etched into her muscles, turning on a small lamp that cast a gentle glow across the room.
Later, she lay in bed, listening to the symphony of night sounds filtering through the partially open window — crickets chirping, leaves rustling, an occasional hoot of an owl.
So different from the city's constant noise, from Rowan's controlled breathing beside her, from the emptiness that had pervaded their shared apartment.
"I don't know who I am without ballet," she admitted to the darkness, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or without being someone's Omega."
