winter

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True peace was a falsehood; it could not exist without war, and if war existed then true peace could not. It was a paradox, an illusion built on fragile promises and scarred memories. Generation after generation bore the weight of battles fought long before their time, handed down like heirlooms. People do not inherit the sins of their parents, but they inherit their stories of tyranny and violence.

These stories were woven into the fabric of families, binding them, breaking them. Parents, hardened by the past, rule over their children with fear, break them down and turn them into soldiers for a cause they had not chosen. And these children, molded by a history not their own, would grow to do the same, each generation paying the price of a war they hadn't started.

But as seasons turned, and the long years of winter stretched on, a generation of hero hearts would be born. Souls of fire and resilience, born not to perpetuate the sins of their parents, but to rewrite their legacy. They would be the champions of the weary, the faces of change, standing against the tide of inherited hatred and fear. With strength forged from empathy rather than cruelty, they would rise to be the ones to break the circle. They would wear their ancestors' scars but not their chains.

In the end, the past haunts the present, and every choice is a step closer to the inevitable winter. And if true peace could not exist, then let their war be a love song. Let the echoes of battle give way, not to violence, but to defiance and love, a love strong enough to break through the darkness and brave enough to hope for a brighter dawn.

Because all parents are guilty of something, but will they pay the real costs of war? Or will they let their children pay the price?

autumn | severus snapeWhere stories live. Discover now