It will only be a hundred sleeps. They said.
What length a sleep would be, they didn’t speak.
She will awaken once the sleeps are done. They said. With eyes that darted and rounded shoulders that hid words and fingers that kept fiddling with the thread.
Nothing, she observed, of how she’d be upon awakening. What she might become. Who would tend her.
If she’d dream.
Will she still know herself? Know them?
“Only a hundred sleeps,” they said.
She turned sixteen.
They pressed her finger to the quill spindle.
Blood bloomed. Dark came.
A yarn. A spin.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers