Work Text:
The Prophetess, for that was what they called her, after all the years that passed, strode through across the street as if purpose moved her steps.
She visited this spot annually, a pilgrimage that had long lost meaning, simply a new routine to pass the time.
There was a bench there. The Prophetess could not remember when the bench was created, but she knew it had not always been like that. The bench was for her.
She sat, hands folded in her lap, and eyes closed, unwilling to see what could be.
The bench had an inscription, in a language lost to time to all but her.
“Never forget her.”
The Prophetess tried to not read those words. She knew they were for her.
She knew she had forgotten.