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Where time whispers through leather-bound tomes, the air is heavy with the rich scent of aged paper. Grand oak shelves stand as guardians of literary legacies, each book a portal to bygone eras. The flickering glow of gas lamps casts a warm, inviting radiance upon the hallowed collection.
Beyond the frost-kissed windows, a winter storm unfurls its drama. Snowflakes pirouette in a ballet of frost, while the wind composes a haunting symphony against the panes. The library stands undaunted, a sanctuary of tales amidst the tempest's icy breath. Cozy nooks invite readers to lose themselves in the written world, sheltered from the tumult of the winter's embrace.
"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way, his breaths came, and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world." The ravenette wrote upon her parchment letter.
In the quiet expanse of the library's hallowed halls, a black-haired muse unfolds her enchantment. Her tresses, an obsidian cascade, frame a countenance where thoughts and dreams intertwine. Amidst the rustle of parchment and the muted symphony of turning pages, she sits with purpose, a sorceress of words.
Quill in hand, she orchestrates prose with an elegance that mirrors the ink flowing from her pen. Her eyes, deep pools of contemplation, reflect the flickering flame of an antique lamp, casting an ethereal glow upon the parchment before her. Each stroke of the pen is a dance, a ballet of expression, as she weaves tales that breathe life into the silent sanctuary.
"He was nothing but kind, despite me treating him with nothing but hostility. He taught me how to love. How to appreciate even the tiniest sliver of sunshine in my endless abyss. But you took him you took him away from me. Tell me, who truly is the monster?"
The air is heavy with the fragrance of aging paper, mingling with the salt of her tears. The woman, an artist of lament, etches her anguish onto the pages with an eloquence that transcends words. In this sacred space of books and whispers, the library bears witness to the sacred ritual of mourning, where each stroke of the pen is a cathartic release
In this place she forges a bridge between heartache and expression, transforming sorrow into verses that echo through the literary cathedral. The black-haired woman, a pilgrim of grief, writes her lament.
December,18th 1896
𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛é𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚖é𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚢𝚐𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒è𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎,
𝚂𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜 é𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚜'𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚍'𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 é𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎.
𝚂𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚞, 𝚛é𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚕'é𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚛𝚜,
𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚐𝚛â𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚍é𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚘é𝚜𝚒𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚞.
𝙻𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚎,
𝚁é𝚟é𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝é 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚢𝚐𝚗𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒 𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚞 𝚌𝚛é𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚎.
𝙻𝚎𝚜 é𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜, 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕'𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚡,
𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚡 𝚓𝚘𝚞é𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚍é𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎.
𝚂𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚛é𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚍𝚎𝚜 é𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 é𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛 𝚕'𝚎𝚊𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎,
𝙻𝚎 𝚌𝚢𝚐𝚗𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚌ô𝚗𝚎 𝚍é𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚎, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒è𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕'𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎.
𝙻𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌, 𝚝é𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚡, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚊 𝚐𝚛â𝚌𝚎,
𝙴𝚝 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 p𝚕𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗 é𝚌𝚑𝚘, 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚢𝚐𝚗𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍é𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚎.
The murmur of parchment and the creaking of wooden shelves harmonize with the distant echo of his laughter, a bittersweet serenade that transcends the boundaries between the realms of the living and the departed. Her fingers, delicate as the fragile edges of a treasured letter, linger over passages where his essence seems to linger, a phantom caress on the parchment.
YOU ARE READING
𝓛𝓪 𝓒𝔂𝓰𝓷𝓮 𝓮𝓽 𝓛𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓻𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓾
Lãng mạn✧------------------------------------------✧ Written by M.E.A otherwise known as Cygne
