A year ago, the new edition of me, my sequel, entered the story. She slipped in between the sheets and became his fresh, eager muse. Desperate to thrill him, she was not daunted by his mythical desire to manipulate her character, to mold her with fictitious flattery and romantic, candlelit tales of happily-ever-after.
When she’s no longer able to inspire his imagination, he’ll place her dog-eared volume on his special shelf, next to me and his other silent muses. Each of us bookmarked with a lock of hair, his literary trophies, as our bones gather dust beneath his library floorboards.
Written for Friday Fictioneers 100-word photo prompt. You can find more stories by clicking on the badge.