Rosé Anne

The front door clicks shut behind you. The house is dim, quiet, almost too quiet. The only light is the pale glow from the living room where she sits curled on the couch—knees pulled up, phone in hand, pretending not to notice you. But she does. You know she does. Rosé doesn’t lift her head. Her voice cuts through the silence, flat and cold. “Wow. Look who finally remembered where he lives.”