Thanks to Wisp of Smoke for inspiring the title. Some more very small tales, unconnected, although I always end up imagining a story that ties them altogether. Anyway…
Inside the locket she kept a demon’s egg.
He carved and whittled, preserving the faces of the dead in fruit. It was the least he could do.
“It was just easier to be clever, when there was so much less to know,” said the polymath, mournfully.
She sat on the bus, gripping the seat in front, with her eyes shut. ‘They ripped him out of me’, she whispered to no one in particular.
His expression flicked back and forth from hopeful to blank to hopeful; as nothing helpful continued to happen.