Kismet, and not always in the good way.
Disclaimer: in no way or shape, except this form.
Jessica Moore remembers the three sisters in different ways. Aunt Leticia, the youngest, with her soft hands and never a grey hair. Gramma Clara, the middle child, always with a kind word and the best bedtime stories. Great Aunt Ata, the eldest, with her knowing looks.
She remembers the house, warm with the smell of Leticia's baking hanging in the air, the bookcase lined room where they taught her to read, her bed that always smelled of rosemary. She remembers the attic room, the sounds of Leticia carding the wool until it was smoother than Jess's own hair. The whir of Gramma Clara's spinning wheel. Jess would help her wind the finished wool, wrapping it around her grandmothers hands until Ata told her there was enough. She remembers the click and slide of the needles in Great Aunt Ata's hands, and the thin scarf she could never find the end of. The tears in their eyes as they told her of the man she would meet, and as they waved her goodbye that last time.
She remembers the night of the fire, how she could smell the smoke from the other side of town, and the look on her mother's face when she told Jess what had happened. The whispers that stopped whenever she was in the room.
'It started in the attic...'
"One day, my dear girl, you'll meet a man. Ooh, such a man, tall, with eyes to make your knees weak.."
"Hands to make your knees weak.."
"But such darkness. Enough to get lost in. and you'll have to shine Jess, bright enough to lead him home..."
"We're so sorry, Jessie-love, some things just weave themselves."
The End
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