Ever after

I’m pulling on a thread of a story that could be resolved two different ways. Harsh or comforting. Hard truths or held punches. Grief or healing. Reflection or escape. Both paths can work. Both have power.

My stories are often quite chatty, telling me what they want to be, what they’re meant to be. But this story is silent, at least about this, as if to say, “This time, you have to choose, not me.”