Chapter Text
Sally Jackson was not a crybaby. She hadn’t cried when some mean toddlers stole her candy at daycare, nor when she fell down three steps of stairs. And she didn’t cry at her parents’ funeral. Distant relatives looked at the young girl, sitting quietly in her black dress, clutching a Greek mythology book in her arms—not a single tear in sight.
In the end, it was her uncle who took custody of her. The quiet man didn't seem like much, but at least he wasn’t a bad man—just a bit uncaring. He provided for Sally and paid for her school. But he wasn’t a rich man, just scraping by.
Sally didn’t ask for much and was always thankful for the pocket money she received, no matter how little. She preferred spending her time studying rather than going on holidays with her friends. She especially loved to read and dreamed that one day, her own published novel would grace the fronts of bookshops.
One summer, during her first year of senior high school, her uncle was strangely attentive. He told her she should go with her friends to enjoy a hiking trip—the one she had just rejected over the phone a few minutes ago. She wanted to save money for college, aiming for one with a good creative writing program. Her uncle then gave her some extra pocket money, saying she didn’t need to worry about spending a little for a trip. With scrunched brows, she called her friend back and said she had changed her mind.
The first time Sally stepped onto the mountain soil, nothing seemed wrong. The sun wasn’t too scorching, and the wind wasn’t too strong. Their hike up the mountain was smooth. Almost too smooth—enough to make Sally uneasy, as if something was about to happen. Then, a shout echoed. The hikers who had been ahead of them came sprinting down the path, shouting for them to run for their lives. Then Sally saw it—a landslide. The soil moved fast, like a tidal wave rushing toward the shore. Sally was rooted to the spot, unable to move from shock. And before the soil covered her up completely, a single tear ran down her cheek, mourning the years of life she would never get to live.
Somewhere, three old women sat in a hall resembling an ancient temple, their hands steadily weaving threads into a single form. The one holding the shears, Atropos, was ready to cut a thread. The one in the middle, Lachesis, raised a hand to stop her. “It isn’t time yet.”
“But it is,” Atropos said, her hesitation clear despite the certainty of her actions. “She is gone.” And then—a snip.
A ripple in the air, faint and invisible, gone as fast as it had appeared. The weaver, Clotho, paused her movement. A seed of dread settled in her stomach. “Something is changing.”
Somewhere, in the depths of the earth, a mother smiled.