My sister believes we were monks once, tending a quiet temple. Another time, soldiers who died on the same battlefield. I ask her why I don’t remember. She just shrugs, peeling an apple. “You never do,” she says. I watch the knife flash. Something about it makes my hands shake.
Rowan Tate wrote this story.
This is subtle but cuts right into me. Good work!
Ooh, this is chilling. Really good.story
Oof. Powerful punch with this one.