The Coils of Duty

By Dakria

The council gathered in the empty parlor. Their voices rose like wind through broken windows. A new house had been claimed for her, its walls ripe for murmurs, doors for slamming, mirrors for bleeding reflections.

“You will haunt it,” they declared, “and keep the line unbroken.”

I would not rattle cupboards, whisper threats, or tether myself to fear. I wanted to drift beyond and travel the world.

But the elders had already wrapped the coils of old duty around my wrists. By dawn, I would be there, my refusal meaningless.

I was not the one who haunted but the one condemned.