Annabelle descended the stairs the next morning with a mask of composure that she had perfected over the years.

The swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks from crying herself to sleep were gone.

It was replaced with a serene, almost regal expression that gave nothing away.

Her hair, freshly brushed and pulled back into a sleek ponytail, glistened in the sunlight filtering through the tall windows.

She wore a fitted grey sweater paired with dark jeans in her usual practical style.

It was her armour.

She hoped no one would see through it that she was using it to hold herself together when everything inside felt like it was falling apart....