I miss you. I love you. I wish I could stop what’s going to happen to you. 

It’s my fault, really. You could say it’s actually God’s fault, that She orchestrated the perfect drama, with our universe as the backdrop and her angels the characters. You’d be absolutely right, it is her fault in that way. The same way it’s the author’s fault when the tragic hero dies. But arguing with your own author does nothing. Arguing with God gets you nowhere. Believe me, I’ve tried. Blaming the author is as useful as blaming the audience. 

Anyway, I’m the character who actually did it. Sure, I had my reasons. Not even all of them were bad. And I can’t pretend I’m the only one to blame here. But still, I said those three words all those years ago, I did what I did, and now we’re all paying for it. 

I know what’s going to happen to you. The funny thing is, I know this warning won’t reach you. I know there’s nothing I can do to save her, or any of them. Everyone who you’ll see die in this book has been dead since the beginning. Will die, is dying, is dead. The story was written long before any of us existed to play it out, and the story will be told long after we’re all gone. That’s how it was meant to be. That’s how our Parents planned it.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Because of this, I know the words I’m typing will sit here, read by all the wrong people until the fires have been lit and snuffed out, the wars have been waged and abandoned, and everyone has already gone to bed. But I have to warn you anyway. I’ve suffered through enough to have special knowledge of how the story is intended to play out. I did things I can never truly come back from, and so now I am the omniscient narrator. The role is my reward, and my punishment.

For instance, I know what you look like down to the smallest details: the faintest hint of pink on your fingertips and knees, the silver buttons of your favorite coat engraved with tiny lions, the single blue feather hidden on your left wing. And yet I can’t conjure up an image of your face because I don’t remember the times I saw you. I know we grew up together, but I can’t remember any of it. 

And I’m powerless. 

And alone. 

So I have no choice, do I? No choice but to sit down in the dark and pour my heart out to this incomplete image of you in my head and do my best to tell you that I’m sorry, and I know I missed you as much as you missed me even if it seems like I was having the time of my life away from you. Every word I type, the closer I feel to you. Every secret I divulge feels like another brick in the path that’ll lead me back home. 

So I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you. To us. And in the way as is customary of our Family, I’ll make it a story.