The Architecture of a Silence: Part II: The Vigil of the Tired Witch


Part II: The Vigil of the Tired Witch

...In the hollow years that followed that malicious deep silence, a transformation took place in the dark with her shadows.

The girl who once offered soft smiles found her blood turning to ink and bitterness. She looked in the mirror and no longer saw a victim or a sad soul; she saw a sorceress birthed from neglect, hate, longing and simply vile she absorbed along the time from all the people she associated with, but mainly from the ghost traveler that disappeared.    

She became now the Witch of the Long Silence, a version of herself she didn't recognize and low-key hated deeply, one who sat by a cold fireplace, weaving a magical dark yarn and wishing for the sky to fall on the man who had erased her that easily.

All these time,and day after day, she started tasting the copper bitterness of the curses she kept whispering and repeating into the wind, hoping he would feel a fraction of the starvation he had left in her soul and bones. 

It was an evil foreign state that possessed her and which was against her cheerfuller nature, like a heavy back cloak she never sought to wear, but the weight of being "too easy to be left" had bent her spine until it snapped into a jagged edge, leaving her in the corner not able to move on. 

But even malice is a fire that requires fuel, and after all these years she is running out of wood.

Now, the witch is simply tired of it all. Her trembling hands that once busy casting spells of "what if's" and "why's" are heavy with the exhaustion of a thousand sleepless Sundays. 

She stands at the edge of the abyss, clutching the phantom of a final message, she wished for a plea for a genuine "apology" that might act as a key to her cage, a cure to her spine, a light to her freedom.

She wondered: if the ghost ever decided to speak, would the rot in her turn back to rose petals, or is the soil too poisoned now for anything to bloom? She fears the loop the terrible round path of a man who only offers warmth only as he is moving away. 

Her hands tremble as she sips her black drink, not in sadness but only mooring whatever she missed of herself above all, deciding whether to remain a prisoner of his ghost or to lay down her staff and finally, mercifully, let the fire go out.


The End.... Is it though.


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