nefebilatta
She comes from a strange and unattainable time, carrying with her the smell of hot asphalt, nostalgia, and marigolds. Along with the shaking hands of someone who knows they've crossed a line that shouldn't have even existed.
In 1993, in a world where magic wasn't just a metaphor, she was completely alone. Without a wand, without family, and being the exception to the rule. Because in her world, their lives were written.
They were paper. They were ink.
She only had the blurred memory of what was to come: deaths, betrayals, loves yet to be born. The memory of a story written by others, and the unbearable weight of knowing what was to come and suffocated her.
Because in her world, they belonged on a shelf.
She knows everyone's fate. But no one knows hers.
Not all pain can be translated. And even less so when you don't trust anyone.
And when the soul is so far from home, when the body doesn't obey and the voice trembles, who can you turn to? No one. Not even yourself.
aviso: al escribir esto, no la apoyo de ninguna manera a la dueña ni sus ideologías (chinga tu madre jkr) esta es mi primera historia estaba en mi cuenta viejita de word, english is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes!