raindrops on roses « h.s »

Somerset’s Home is known as an incredibly peaceful and silent home for both orphans and seniors.

It has always been what it is; lavish and comfortable near England's countryside, directly pulled out of a Penguin classic.

I was simply planning on watching as Terria, my little sister, played a Beirut instrumental on the newly polished grand piano at the top floor when the head mistress called, clammy sweat being dabbed by her collar bow.

"What is it Madam?" I asked.

A self-proclaimed international pop star dashed across the lobby, holding a sheet of thick paper and raced her.

"Are you Talia? Talia Ornacus?"

I nodded as he held up the form, his smile nearly convulsing.

"I'm Harry Styles, international pop star. Hi. And, funny thing, I'm around ninety-five, maybe ninety-six, percent sure we're married."

And that's basically where everything started.

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A story of pretentious music, a pompous multi dollar millionaire who lost his memory, and dances under the moonlight because no matter how much people deem it’s untrue, fairytales are waiting realities.