Small Graveyards of Fate
As any child will, fate often gets bored. Perhaps it chooses to tug on your red string, maybe toys with the rules of time a bit, just enough to move your future a little to the left. But those changes, so minuscule in the grand scheme of things, rarely amount to anything. Perhaps a different coffee order the next morning, a different leaf crunched on the way home from school.
Fate cries like a newborn. It laments the stories it never got to tell and sends storms to those it despises, rages at the gods for keeping its schedule strict. It does not get to choose when we pass on, when we become dust in the ground or evaporate into the rain.
Fate cannot control its tendency to speak out of turn, as it is still young and learning. On occasion it forgets to choose its words carefully. It sends the globe into turmoil and must repair it bit by bit, word by word, thought by thought.
Fate did not ask for this job. It is far too young to be taking this path, leading this world. But while it is here, it may as well do its best.