Every night, the same tiresome ritual. And every night, the same temporary relief as the sun rose once more.
He was doomed, but instead of outright admitting this, the gods had dangled the promise of potential release from his fate in front of him. All he needed to do was find his head again, and it would all be over. He would not go to heaven, or any such paradise in the afterlife. No, his soul would be set free entirely, and he would cease to exist. More importantly, he would cease to be aware.
And as he trudged on from graveyard to graveyard, that was all he craved for.
But for now, the sunrise would have to do. As the first rays would peek out over the horizon, he got to drift off into a slumber, drifting on the wind like a butterfly with a broken wing.
Until the setting of the sun, and the search had to start all over again.
YOU ARE READING
Tiny Stories Part 2
ContoMy second collection of microfiction, sometimes dealing with the mundane, but mostly dealing with the magical. Unlike the first collection, the stories in this one are based on inktober prompts.
