The Motherlode

The little girl looked into his crinkled eyes as he took her to a time when he was young – a land he had never seen before, the lives he would inevitably change because that is who he always was. He was a tale of love lost and love embraced, the world conquered in a way only he knew how. He wouldn’t tell, until years later to that little girl, that he was a little scared too.

And he had those eyes, dark, yet not so much as to not be able to decipher the warmth of brown; a storyteller’s eyes from another century. He didn’t know then but his stories would save a little girl he loved dearly. And yet, his eyes kept just one secret from her – that they were saved for someone.

She walked across a land she had never seen before, past the lives she wanted to change someday. She wasn’t so little anymore; cigarette burns marked her heart in patterns so intricate that somehow it looked beautiful. She would have been a lone soul if not for those crinkly eyes whose last words to her were, “You’re my favourite girl”. So she mouthed her letters to the wind and the rivers, knowing that they would reach him; it was, after all, her turn to be the storyteller.

She didn’t know yet. She had his eyes.



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