Page 39 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

The future holds no promises.

So I close my eyes against the truth written in my unfeeling flesh, and I wait for the water to grow warm enough to admit defeat.

Just like my body already has.

The tepid water lulls me into memories I usually keep locked away, dangerous things that prowl the edges of consciousness like wolves at twilight.

These are the memories that cut deepest – not of what was taken, but of what was freely given and lost anyway.Like trying to hold water in cupped hands, watching it slip away no matter how tightly you grasp.

I remember running with a clarity that makes my useless legs ache with phantom strength.

The wind had tasted like possibilities back then, each breath a promise of horizons yet to chase. My body moved in perfect harmony, every muscle and sinew working together in a dance I took for granted, never imagining it could end.Like a symphony playing its final note without knowing the conductor has already laid down his baton.

It was during one of those runs that everything changed – not the run that broke me, but one that haunts me still with its sweetness. The autumn air had painted the world in amber and gold, leaves dancing on the breeze like nature's confetti when it happened.

A scent so sweet, so hauntingly familiar it stole the breath from my lungs and replaced it with pure memory.

Cupcakes.

But not just any cupcakes – these were my grandmother's autumn masterpieces, the ones that made her tiny bakery a sanctuary for those who still believed in magic.

Like catching fragments of childhood dreams in sugar and starlight.

I can still see them arranged on her vintage trays with an artistry that bordered on sorcery. Swirls of teal frosting caught the light like seafoam at twilight, while magenta accents seemed to pulse with their own inner radiance. A dusting of edible shimmer transformed each one into a small miracle, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to dream in technicolor instead of safe, pastel mundanity.

"These are witch's cupcakes," she would say with a wink that held secrets, her eyes twinkling with mischief and magic in equal measure.

Each creation was split between worlds – rich chocolate meeting delicate vanilla in a perfect division, like day and night sharing a single horizon. Not marbled or mixed, but distinctly separated, each flavor holding its own truth while complementing its opposite.

But the real magic lay hidden within. In every batch, one cupcake held a secret heart of gold, its filling catching light like captured stars when lucky teeth found treasure. The pursuit of that golden center became a quest that transformed simple customers into adventurers, each bite holding the possibility of discovery.

The last time I tasted one of those cupcakes feels like a story from another life, told about someone else who wore my face but knew how to smile without pain shadowing the edges.

I'd spent the day in her bakery, watching hope and disappointment play across faces as each customer sought that elusive golden center.

As closing time painted long shadows across the floor, a single cupcake remained – perfect in its solitude, teal, and magenta swirling together like the northern lights captured in frosting.

"This one's yours," my grandmother said, her eyes holding that special light that meant magic was afoot, real magic, the kind that changes lives and destinies. "You've earned it."

My hands trembled as I lifted it, the weight of possibility almost too much to bear. That first bite filled the world with wonder, and there it was – that shimmering golden center, like holding a piece of forever on my tongue.

Her laughter filled the bakery with joy as she brought forth a box that seemed to breathe with its own life.

Dark wood carved with patterns that danced when you looked away, promising secrets for those patient enough to wait for them.

"When the clock strikes midnight," she said, her voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "Some magic needs the perfect moment to bloom."

But midnight never came.

At least, not the way it was supposed to be.

The call that shattered everything came at 11:47 PM, hospital voices speaking words that rewrote the world.

Like watching color drain from a painting, leaving only shadows behind.

She was gone, taking her magic and mysteries with her into whatever lies beyond.

The box still sits in my closet, unopened, sometimes whispering with her voice in the depths of night. But I've never found the courage to lift its lid, to face that final piece of her magic. Some gifts, once opened, can never be unclosed.

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