It feels as though the world is filled with a soft mist that draws in warmth and colour and spits out a steel-cold grey. Imagine, an old woman sitting alone in a tower, locked away from the world, and forgotten. She spins an endless story about faraway places and ignores the cold grey stone and damp vapour separating her from the world only a few hundred feet below.
Fate called in sick one Thursday morning, and destinies everywhere went unfulfilled. And so the spinner sits alone, and she dreams, and in another universe, she is woken by small hands that drag off the covers, and the smell of burnt toast curling blackly at the corners. And in another, she teaches, and in a third she is taught.
The stories unwind and fate has never seemed less important.
