Miranda, still slumped on the floor, watched as the world grew detached from her—her children, her husband, her home, her life. All of it was crumbling before her.
Her children did not so much as glance at her, as if they had long forgotten how they once tried to comfort her in times of despair, how they had sought to bring her joy when she wept over their father's frailty. They did not run to her, even as she collapsed. Gone was the love for their mother, gone were the promises to become more powerful so that she could live out her life in comfort, and gone were the children that asked her to tell them stories of the eras passed.
The love of her life—the object of her desires, the subject of her devotion and obsession—stood magnificent as ever. Yet, just as he had done the first time she laid eyes on him, he ignored her.
