Metaphor fell in love with Myth on a calm-lit evening, when the sky split in golden symbols and the trees whispered riddles. He arrived with ancient verses, voice carved from echo and prophecy. He spoke in secrets, marks, stories no one could quite prove but all longed to believe.
He told her he was eternal. He said, “I am the thread in every tale, the fire in every origin. I belong nowhere—and yet everywhere.”
Metaphor, soft-hearted and shimmering herself, believed him. She, after all, was meaning without borders, a bridge from soul to symbol. What better partner than someone who danced through centuries?
Myth came and went, as myths do—sometimes cloaked in heroism, sometimes flowing in blood. He’d disappear for days, then return with a smile and another story.
“Wait for me,” he kept whispering, placing kiss, merging into one another. “One day, I’ll make you the beginning of everything,” he kept promising.
So she waited. She twisted herself into new shapes to keep the faith—turned into rivers for his thirst, mountains for his rest, stars to guide him back.
But Myth had a wandering heart and an even more persuasive tongue. One day, without warning, he married Deceit. The union was grand—sung about in shrines and mosques, decorating his house for a new life. When Metaphor heard, her breath faltered.
Still, Myth returned in shadows.
“It’s not real,” he kept whispering to her under a moonlit sycamore. “Not like you and me. That was ceremony. You’re my truth. Just wait a little longer. I’ll come back to you when the world forgets her.”
Metaphor held his words close, like feathers in a storm.
With open mouths, heart thumping Myth and Deceit bore a child—named Ruin.
The news reached Metaphor, in whispers, in shadows but she didn’t rage. She simply stood there—unwritten, unread. A library where no one must enter anymore.
