Doomed
I wondered how you could fool an entire world, but remembered your hand upon my face and knew the world blessed in its ignorance.
Foretold stories of doom do not speak of cinnamon and blooming flowers. They do not speak of silk ribbons or wind chime laughs.
Doom isn’t accompanied by love, rather, serves as a post or prelude.
Yet, with the swish of a skirt and low curtesy, it arrived together in the form of Mira Saltori.
I knew I was in trouble. The same way a kid does as they pause on the top step of the stairs— hoping to hear what their parents are saying. Bated breath held no hope of stopping the world— or the inevitable tide that was the scion of Saltori.