The Myth
The fire burned low, its glow flickering across the wrinkles of Serina’s grandmother’s face.
Stories always came after dinner. When the house quieted. When night pressed its ear to the walls.
“…in those days,” her grandma said, voice slow and careful, “people didn’t fear the dark. They feared what came after.”
Serina leaned closer, knees tucked to her chest. “The goddess of death?”
Her grandmother nodded but did not look at her. “Yes. That goddess.”
She never said the name.
Serina frowned, rolling the word on her tongue like a secret she had found by accident. “Rasha.”
The fire snapped.
Her grandmother turned sharply, hand flying to Serina’s mouth, breath uneven. “Don’t say it,” she hissed, eyes wide, scanning the room as if the walls might remember. “Never say it aloud.”
Serina’s heart thudded. She hadn’t meant to be rude. She pulled her hand away slowly. “Why? It’s just her name.”
Her grandmother shook her head, fingers trembling. “Names are doors. Hers is one that should stay closed.”
She lowered her voice further. “They say speaking the goddess of death’s name draws her attention. And when she notices you…” Her words trailed off.
Serina swallowed. “Something bad happens?”
Her grandmother stared into the fire. “Something ends.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the story itself.
Serina looked down at her hands, suddenly unsure why her skin felt cold. The name echoed in her mind again, softer now. Not as a warning.
As a question.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx
Time passed quietly after that.
My grandmother used to tell me many things about the goddess of death. Not stories meant to scare, but truths spoken like warnings wrapped in lullabies. She never said her name. Not once.
One night, while the oil lamp flickered low, I asked her something that had been sitting heavy in my chest.
“Why was she hated?”
My grandmother paused. Her fingers stilled over the beads she always rolled between them. “Of course she was,” she said slowly. “Even though death is inevitable… people are afraid of losing life.”
I frowned. The thought didn’t sit right with me. “But why?” I asked. “Then shouldn’t we be more afraid of life? Life is full of suffering. Death only ends it.”
She looked at me then. Really looked. As if I had said something far older than my age.
“It’s true,” she murmured. “But suffering is the only thing that makes life interesting.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
She smiled, tired but gentle, and reached out to brush my hair back. “You will,” she said softly. “When you grow more, child.”
At that time, I didn’t understand what she meant.
Now… she is no more.
Her voice still lingers in these rooms, echoing in corners that feel too large without her. Sometimes it feels unreal, like she simply stepped out and forgot to come back.
I stand in front of her photograph, her familiar smile frozen in time. “Granny,” I murmur, my voice barely steady, “today… I went to college.”
The room doesn’t answer.
“I was a little nervous,” I continue, forcing a small smile. “But they didn’t seem bad. I think I’ll be okay.”
My hand tightens at my side. The silence presses heavier.
“Maybe I should buy something for dinner,” I whisper. “I wish you were here to eat my cooking.”
I turn away, breathing out slowly.
It’s been a year.
And I still can’t seem to accept the fact that death, the very thing she spoke of so calmly, chose her.
