Solita...

Three score and thirty I’ve protected this delicacy. No temptation to take it in your tender years. For it’d have been bitter. No urge at middle age either. For then tart enough to be eschewed rather than enjoyed as chewed.

But now. As you tip past 101, blissfully oblivious to oblivion—it’s the best gig a small god can get. Old souls, yes the old souls, the best souls: rich, seasoned, textured, saltily sweet...

I’m Solita, your soul stealer and eater. I’ll take it from here as you’re dying to pass it on. The hull’s mine, the kernel, the meat—your maker’s.