No-one saw her on the bridge, or witnessed the printed feathers on her dress appear to fly, as she moved through the air. No-one noticed the abandoned letters. Notes to her lover in jail.
They’d stood trial for her husband’s murder. Lives balanced in unforgiving hands. Bitter mouths labelled her to blame, but someone saw truth in those childlike eyes. Her lover wasn’t so lucky.
Later, he too would be pardoned. He’d send word of the miracle, but it wouldn’t reach her.
Sometimes our own hands are the most unforgiving.
Lifeless in the river, the feathers on her dress lay still.