The Devil's Favourite
Morning arrived gently upon the mountains, as though the day itself had chosen to walk softly across the hills. A thin veil of mist lingered between the tall pines, and the cool air carried the quiet scent of damp earth and old bark. The forest stood still and thoughtful, its moss-covered trunks rising like silent keepers of forgotten time. Through this hushed landscape moved a single figure — a woman in red.Ananya never hid her addiction. The little packets, the scattered pills, the glassy eyes—everything lay openly on her dressing table, as familiar as her lipstick and perfume. She laughed at death, claiming it had been following her for years and had grown tired of waiting.
Meera, dressed in black, stood over her that night, holding a bloodied blade. Ananya lay against the floor, her ivory lace dress stained crimson, her face marked by the final struggle.
“You always said you'd die young,” Meera whispered. “I merely decided not to let you choose the hour.”
Ananya's lips twitched. Whether it was the drugs clouding her mind or the shadow of a smile, Meera couldn't tell. Even now, dying, her friend seemed amused.
“Was it the blade, darling?” Ananya murmured. “Or did you think nobody would question an addict's death?”
Meera's smile vanished.
Ananya had known. Perhaps not everything, but enough. She had seen the hatred hiding behind Meera's concern, the little silences, the way her friend watched her whenever she reached for another pill.
Then Ananya stopped breathing.
Meera dropped the knife and hurried towards the mirror to compose herself. But her reflection remained perfectly still, staring at the corpse.
A moment later, its lips parted.
“You killed her,” it whispered. “So why am I still here?”
Behind Meera, the dead woman's fingers curled around the blade.
And the clock struck 2:17.
