Written in stone
Mel’s hands are steady as she works.
Chisel to stone. The slow, deliberate movement of her hands, the rhythmic sound of hammer striking steel. She inhales the dust, lets it coat her lungs, welcomes the sensation of something physical weighing her down.
This is different from painting. Painting is soft, forgiving. This is not. There is no undoing a wrong stroke. No smearing, no layering over mistakes. Every choice is final.
And yet—she still shapes her.
Ambessa stares at her from within the stone, her features emerging with each cut, each precise, hungry stroke of Mel’s chisel. The likeness is uncanny. Too uncanny. It is her mother exactly as she is, preserved in marble, as though she has never left Mel’s side.
Because she hasn’t.
Mel exhales sharply, dragging her arm across her forehead, smearing sweat and dust across her skin. She takes a step back, gaze trailing over the sculpture. The pose is regal—of course it is. Ambessa was born for the throne, for power, for the weight of the world bowing at her feet.
But Mel has softened her, too. Just enough. The barest suggestion of warmth in her eyes, the curve of her mouth almost tender.
almost
She stares at it. At her. And she feels sick.
Because this was not supposed to be Ambessa.
Mel had begun carving with the intention of sculpting something new, something free of the past, something hers. But her hands had moved with muscle memory, shaping and smoothing, chiseling away until her mother’s face emerged from the stone like a specter, like a curse.
She tightens her grip on the chisel. Her fingers ache from hours of work, her arms burning with the effort. But she does not stop.
She can’t.
The worst part is—she wants this.
She wants to see Ambessa this way. Wants to keep her mother in this static, unmoving form, preserved in marble, trapped in a creation that mel controls.
Not the other way around.
A presence looms behind her. She doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.
“Beautiful,” Ambessa says, voice smooth, indulgent. “I take it back. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Mel swallows. Her throat is dry.
“I didn’t mean to carve you,” she says. It comes out too weak, too brittle. A lie.
Ambessa hums, stepping closer, close enough that Mel can feel the heat of her body at her back. “No?”
A rough hand traces over the smooth marble, fingertips brushing over stone-carved lips. Mel does not look. She can’t.
Ambessa’s gaze is heavy on her, pressing into her like a weight she has no hope of lifting.
“You can tell yourself that,” Ambessa says, voice soft, mocking. “But we both know the truth, little one.”
Mel’s breath shudders out of her.
Her mother leans in, her lips brushing the shell of Mel’s ear as she whispers, "You will always make me beautiful."
And Mel—Mel hates that it’s true.
She tells herself she’s trying to create something new, but her hands betray her. Her mind betrays her. Ambessa is always there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be shaped into something immortal.
And she knows it.