The Knowing (no astrology)

Anvār-i Suhaylī 1847

For thirteen years, since her father’s death, she had believed one lie.

Not because anyone told it to her, not because it had been woven into a careful deception, but because she had spun it herself—thread by thread, thought by thought until it was airtight, impenetrable.

It was just a common death. An old man, frail and stubborn, who decided one night to go to the bathroom without his oxygen. Perhaps he was tired of living the way age and health dictated. Perhaps he left the oxygen on his bed deliberately, sat at his desk, and fell over. Regardless, he was gone. Nothing suspicious. Nothing to question.

She had believed that. Had repeated it. Had defended it.

Until now.

The remainder of this post is for paid subscribers. Thank you for supporting my work.