Yasmin’s home was a museum of odd things amassed over roughly one and a half natural human lifespans of curation. According to the most trustworthy rumors, long, long ago, she left home as a teenager armed with nothing but her courage, curiosity and a natural flair for belly dance.
Those things had been more than enough for her adventures, as it turned out. Among her more mundane treasures were jewels from quite a few kings, emperors, sultans and other lesser royals who at one point or another had sought her attention. The juicy stories behind those jewels were for her grandkittens ears only, though.
Regardless, life at home had moved on in her absence. Spaces she once occupied sort of closed up without her, much like an abandoned piercing. So when she returned, almost a century later, it was to a completely different town than the one she left.
As the last living heir, she found herself finally in charge of the house where she'd been raised, the prison she had once fled. And so she remade it in her own image, into a wild and flashy monument to a life lived her way. The thing that truly thrilled her, though, was that now, there was no one alive who remembered that her name was really Agnes.
I wrote this for yesterday's freewrite and forgot to post it in time so instead of abandoning it, I decided to just post it on my blog. If you're wondering what happened to The Chronicles of Gin, fear not. I know what happens next and I'll write and post it. Definitely eventually 😉.
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