Submission (#68) Approved

Genevieve, in the morning, is, shockingly, a decent woman.

And by this, she is simply a woman with silence, silence not searing but silence dipped in iced air, lightly humid, dew gems slipping off the blades. This is the morning’s. She is wise enough to know not to disturb the silence around her, so she blends with it. The quelled woman to gaze up from her lake, she might find herself absorbed in it.

Morning is when the skies have cleared away its fickle colors, to the moon that still lingers in the blue, her fiery eyes stare back, its faded face reminds her of … something. It's at peace, she longs for it to look her way again tomorrow.

She’s gentle.

Some days, it won’t, it’s blanketed by downy gray-whites, but she believes it. The woman with the silence looks up anyway, she waits for it, with it, whether she sees it or not. She lets it change, what power does she have over the force? The sun pulls to the peaks of the sky with an even pace, up, over, under, not once does it fall as if it were relieved to go free, as it should be excited. It’s not, it’s slow, even, unwaveringly loyal, encircling. Perfect.

It returns again, as it always does, and while the constant should bring her to ease, she always looks down before her neck snaps from the wear. Tired face to the earth, brows riled up with disappointment. Waiting, she is waiting for what?

Always, always, why should she wait for what she wants?

Morning is what ignites her orange irises to be critical, to live on, in fullness from spite to provisory forgiveness, should the moon leave in a fog each time, she is ready to turn away from it once it’s gone.

And by the next morning, she can’t help but look up again.

Reward	Amount
Cinder	350