Six Sentence Sunday: A sort of god, this boy.

This week, we’re returning yet again to the project I began revisiting last week!

I think I missed this place more than I knew.
 
 

He’d made up stories for her, when they were younger (he had two years on her, and so she could never remember a time when he wasn’t at her side), when she would cry at the sounds of her grandmama’s nightmares and so be too terrified to sleep.

He would creep out of the manor at night, sneak out to the Fringe, invariably return with some small trinket that she could hold in her hands like an idol; and he would tell her stories of how they had come to be.

She grew up seeing him as a sort of god, this boy. Oh, she knew that he didn’t know the old world any better than she, but that only seemed to make the magic of his stories all the stronger.

He didn’t know, but he could create.

And it was the creating that she valued most of all, because on some level, she knew: If the world all was false, these days, then why shouldn’t she follow the one with the prettiest lies?

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5 thoughts on “Six Sentence Sunday: A sort of god, this boy.

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