A/N: This is just a little thing I wrote for the 5th May Prompt: "Write a scene/story about a character waking up to find someone watching them." I know I haven't updated Saccharine in like a month, but it's coming along. I just needed to take a little break from it.

Enjoy!

1933. Salzburg, Austria.

Brigitta was always the one who noticed things. Even at five years old the littlest details grabbed her attention, like the dimpled smirk Louisa got every single time she did something bad, or the way Franz would almost imperceptibly roll his eyes at a request from her one of her siblings, or the grayish tint to her dead mother's lips that even the overly pink corpse-makeup couldn't quite hide.

Sometimes Brigitta wished she didn't notice things so much.

The night after Mother's funeral was one of those times. Brigitta had always prided herself on her "independence". That was a word she'd read in one of Liesl's books. Being all alone in her room at night never frightened her. She was five and practically grown-up, so she had no need to share a room with anyone. But tonight wasn't a normal night. The wind murmured disturbingly outside, and even though fatigue was dragging at her eyelids she couldn't bring herself to sleep.

Maybe it was silly, but this world which was suddenly Motherless made things that hadn't been scary before, like being all alone at night, scary now.

She wished she shared a room with one of her sisters. Maybe then she would be able to hug one of them instead of her pillow, which was cold and squished under her arms with a sort of resigned crumple, like "Fine, fine, you can hug me. I suppose." Maybe if she shared a room with somebody else, the darkness wouldn't be so soupy and thick, like a sprawling black sea enveloping the tiny boat that was her bed.

Brigitta felt very isolated and oddly afraid of nothing in particular, and her brain had decided to remember details without her permission. At first she was only remembering things about yesterday's funeral, how everyone had seemed so sad each molecule of air gave off a dull blue fog; how Father had looked so stiff and somehow removed from everyone else, like he did not even belong there; how Mother's coffin had looked so confined and dark and Brigitta could not stop thinking about how trapped Mother would feel down there, before she remembered that Mother was dead and she couldn't feel anything anymore.

But after thinking about the funeral she began to think about the traits that made up her mother. The thing about noticing is that the more you notice, the more you have to miss. Brigitta missed her mother as much as she thought the world would allow. It felt like there was a hot, volcanic darkness as big as the Earth swelling in her chest. She couldn't help it – for the millionth time in the past few days, she started crying. Sleepiness was creating a buzzing ache in her head, and she just missed every little thing about Mother – the way sunlight used to hit her fawn hair, weaving strands of sorrel and auburn and cinnamon through it. How she was almost always elegantly misted with a floral perfume, and she would flip through her book of flowers with Brigitta – "White carnations mean 'remembrance'; Rhododendrons mean 'beware'" – to teach her how to read. The balloon-like swell of her belly when she'd been pregnant with Marta and Gretl. The milky whiteness of her skin and the rosy glow in her cheeks that gave an impression of warmth and vitality, although that flush had disappeared more and more until the day she was suddenly gone, faded into the somehow powdery-looking sunlight floating through her window pane…

A sharp pain shot through the back of Brigitta's head, and she jumped forward, disoriented. Had she fallen asleep and knocked against the headboard? She blinked, her brain still filled with the dim clouds of sleep, and then she saw it – the fleeting glimpse of pale blue eyes, fawn hair, ivory skin, and a gentle, poignant smile. Carnation perfume filled her nose.

Brigitta jerked into full consciousness, her eyes focused unblinkingly on the spot at the end of her bed. Now there was nothing but murky blackness, but she was positive she had seen her mother watching her in the momentary flash of moonlight. Maybe there had been clouds covering the moon before that had vanished and allowed her a peek at Mother. Maybe she was still there, standing at the foot of her bed, and she just couldn't be seen because the clouds were back.

"Mother?" she whispered.

There was no reply. But that didn't stop the rapid pitter-patter of Brigitta's pulse. Mother had been there, watching over her as she slept. She didn't know how, but there was no room for doubt in her mind – an image of that clarity couldn't just be pulled from her imagination!

She leaped out of bed. Somebody had to know about this. Wildly, she ran down the hall and shoved open the door to Father and Mother's – no, just Father's now – bedroom. It was unbelievably dark in there, even darker than her room had seemed. The windows were shut tightly but for one notch between the curtains. If she hadn't been so hasty to share her discovery, she would've noticed that the atmosphere nearly felt like one of a crypt – impenetrable, cold, with an almost tangible and resentful pain simmering in the air. She did notice how very alone Father looked without his wife beside him, without two rhythms of breath filling up the room.

She leaped onto the bed. "Father, Father, wake up!"

He jolted upright. "For God's sake, what is it?"

Brigitta hesitated at the tone of his voice. He was normally grumpy when she woke him in the middle of the night, but he'd never been that harsh. She could understand, though. Louisa had been awfully prickly the last few days, too.

"Father," she whispered. "I…" she trailed off, suddenly wondering whether this was such a good idea. Maybe she should've waited until morning.

"Brigitta, what is it?"

The band of light coming through the window made only one of his eyes visible. She was faintly startled by how distant it was. It reminded her of how the lake looked the time it froze over – numb, blue, and joyless.

"I-I fell asleep for a few seconds, and then I woke up and I…well, I – "

"Just how long will it take to tell this story?" Father asked. The biting sarcasm in his voice took her aback. It was normal for him to be sarcastic, but never when she woke him up about something, and never at that degree.

"I saw Mother." She blurted out in a rush, not wanting to test his patience. "I saw her, standing at the end of my bed, watching over me while I was sleeping. It was only for a second, but I saw her! I even smelled her perfume!"

She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable happiness that would come with such a statement. But Father simply stared at her for a few seconds. He turned his head so she couldn't see his eye anymore, only his dark silhouette. He sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face, making a lock of hair come loose and curl over his forehead.

"Brigitta," he said. His voice was low, and the pure sorrow in it shocked her. "You didn't see your mother."

She bit her lip, tears forming puddles in her eyes again. Why didn't he believe her? "Father – Father, I promise – "

"You were dreaming."

"I did see – "

"You're normally so sensible, Brigitta. Just go back to sleep."

"Father, she was right there!"

"No, she was not!" He hissed savagely, the sound ripping through the tense quiet. "Agathe is dead, Brigitta, and none of us are ever going to see her or touch her or speak to her ever again! What you saw was a figment of your imagination, nothing more!"

Brigitta froze, staring at him open-mouthed. She had seen him angry before, but never like that. There had always been warning signs telling her he was about to yell, but that had come unexpectedly and swiftly, like an attack. His words left a frigid echo inside her. Father was right about nearly everything. Mother had said so once. So it had to be true – the vision of her had just been a cruel, silly dream.

The reality of death really hit her then, falling over her like the sudden pall of winter. Mother and every little thing you could possibly notice about her – every sight and word and scent – were gone, locked under the ground with the soil and the blind little worms, where no one could reach her.

"Just go to bed, darling." Father said quietly, laying his head back on his pillow. The pained anger in his voice had dissipated as quickly as it came; now it was just exhausted and melancholy. The word "darling" sounded very out of place in that voice. It was like a stranger calling her "darling".

She tiptoed out the door and stood unmoving in the hall. Tears spattered hotly on her cheeks. She didn't know what she'd expected to happen. How stupid she was. The glance of Mother had been nothing more than a wistful, half-asleep hallucination.

It was so silly to think that anyone could have been watching her as she slept, especially someone who was dead.