Left foot, right foot. They move together without asking each other why. They only know that the ritual they’re performing will erase those who broke their hearts into small, splintered chunks.
It’s a quiet sort of knowledge. Their mothers whispered the truth to them, and their mother’s mothers did the same. It’s as instinctive as breathing, as chewing, as laughing. They don’t discuss it, they simply do.
These sweet rooms draw the women toward it like a magnet. And somehow, the second they step into the room, they begin moving in rhythm together.
Left arm. Right arm. Brush through hair.