"Miss Akthios," Elias grunted, finally managing to help her regain her footing. "You... you are heavy."
It felt as though he were trying to lift an anchor. Her arm, thin and pale inside the sleeve of her coat, weighed tons. It was a dense, gravitational pull that made his knees buckle. He gasped, straining his back, wondering how such a slight frame could contain the density of a dying star.
In recent years, the visibility of the Miss Akthios contest has grown, with snippets and mentions of the event appearing on social media and regional coverage, often highlighted by its association with "sisterhood" and "empowerment".
Veils, dark lace, and skeletal or celestial motifs.
He walked back to his bakery, stepping lightly, leaving Miss Akthios to her beautiful, terrible gravity.
"You can't take the bag, Elias," she said gently. "But you can walk beside me."
One rainy Tuesday, a young baker named Elias saw Miss Akthios trip. It was a startling sight. One moment she was the statue of composure; the next, she was on her knees, her shopping bag spilling nothing but air onto the wet pavement.
Dead flowers, broken clocks, and heavy jewelry representing "weight."