They call her the golden one, the lucky girl who survived the life she was born into. The chosen one. They call her this in mockery. Because she’s an orphan, gilded by our lifestyle. But I decided to call her the golden one because in that moment, when I turned toward the erupting giggles, I finally saw a person living. Truly living; truly happy. A girl with red hair, kissed by the sun’s rays. A girl with red hair, kissed by life. And when you grow up to be a reaper, you can’t help but become obsessed. Obsessed to the point of killing her. But within that lies the irony, because if she dies, I
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