This is a story about a writer. Or maybe that's what she dreamed to be (sad!). Little jade, never respected, all she wanted was to be remembered. Pages and pages of work that would have been her record (wow!). But oh! It was never published, never saw the light of the moon. The words never read by someone other than her. She was so quiet, so polite. So hardworking (good job!). Dear little jadeblood, who kept to herself and dreamt. She never took the leap to try become something greater. Her moiraillegance was her undoing - an exploded husktop was *their* end, you see. Lovely little jade, curious little thing, she needed to know why. And BOOM! Up her own went! Her dreams along with it (sad!). Don't worry, little jade. Your friend recalls you still. And I'm here to make sure you're remembered beyond that (yay!). ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏ 𓆩Story found𓆪
... It's fine. You didn't know. I don't like that the dead knew who to tag. That means someone's been keeping fucking tabs on me.
Yes. But these are ghosts from when I was using a different name. I don't know why they knew this one.
I wasn't close to any of them. We were only friends through another... Ah. Of course.
I was, once. I lived long enough to see that change. The only difference between she and I is that I got lucky.
Yes.