Cinnamon. That’s what the room smelled like — cinnamon. She inhaled deeply, feeling her lungs expand against her frail ribcage. Her eyes fluttered open and took in the sight of her surroundings.

Orange, crimson, scarlet, rouge. The sun was setting on the house, casting the flames of its glow on the walls of the room’s interior, already bathed in the colors of the never-ending mural of poppies.

“Marmalade. Orange marmalade,” she heard the other voice murmur. They sat facing each other across a table, solemn in their cold silence. The two were kneeling on a rattan mat and she could feel the pattern imprint itself on the bare skin of her knees and shins. The other figure moved its hand, dipping its index finger into the acrylic bowl, and she could almost taste the confiture on its finger.

Her eyes followed its movement, watching the agonizingly beautiful drops of marmalade drip, drip, drip onto the mahogany table.