He had given me that necklace long ago. He said that it was for good luck. I grew up believing him.
At the age of 10, he died of an accident. His parents wept and moved on, he had a sister who was two years older than him.
I always thought that it was my fault, because he gave his good luck to me.
He was always there when I wanted to look up to him. He was taller than me. His mother had patted me at his funeral and gave me a few photos, taken by various people, me and him smilling to the frame.
I always believed that he didn't die. At least, not in my dreams. In my dreams he ran on a hill covered with flowers and grass, butterflies and bees flying in circles and bunches.
It was always lovely, that dream. But then I woke up, and everytime I found nothing.
In some versions of the story, he didn't die. He didn't die because of me. We lived happily together after. I don't know which versions are true.
His name was Fate, and that was his life story. That made him who he is.
And I am Love.
YOU ARE READING
Broken
Short StoryA collection of short stories. Plain words to describe people's broken things. Everything. Narrating to show that there would always be different people, however hard they try to blend in.
