There's a room in the house she can't touch.
That doesn't mean Meira hasn't been inside it, though.
At the center of the space is a painting. Below it, lies a woman encased in glass,
frozen in time in the way most vampires are.
But there's something different about it.
Her chest doesn't rise and fall with her breaths.
Her eyes are closed with sleep, and she's never seen them open.
Her hands lay still by her side, adorned with white that looked soft to the touch.
She's… so still.
Meira can see traces of herself in the woman.
The right fang that peeks out of her mouth a smidge, the shape of her brow,
and the mole under her cheek.
Her snow white hair even matched the color of the uneven streaks peeking through the black growing from Meira’s temples.
But this is not a woman Meira knows.
She's not her mother, a grandmother, or any ancestor she's seen.
The young vampire has never heard a whisper of her name or origin.
Even with endless nights of research and the hurried attempts to take
books out of the family library, Meira hasn't learned much.
All her info has come in passing, a conversation not meant for wet ears.
"It's a price some of us must pay. Just be glad it's not you."
Meira presses her small hands gingerly against the glass, wondering.