The prophecy

“A prophet’s job is never done,” Shia thought aloud, cleaning up the dust and bones from her last customer.

‘Bang, bang!’ “Prophet! Open this door!” shouted the voice of a man Shia recognized all to well. She looked over her shoulder to the flimsy wooden door about ten feet behind her. Should she open it? “Open this door, I say!” More banging ensued and finally Shia decided to let the man in, even though she knew it would mean her demise.

Slowly, the old prophet undid the latch that held the door shut and stepped back, the wood just missing her nose as the man shoved it wide.

He was a tall, thick chested man who resembled his daughter perfectly. They both had the same long, black hair and grey, emotionless eyes. “Are you the prophet who told my girl she would be killed by my hand?”

“I am.”

The man drew a gun from his pocket and aimed it at the woman. “You lie!” he screamed and fired.

The woman collapsed. “This does not change my prophecy,” she whispered. “You will kill your daughter.”

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