Rosewater and hymns

Beneath the velvet hush of moonlit years, a silent girl with rose-curled hair grew hidden from the world, pale as candlewax and soft as mourning lace. She wandered through childhood like a ghost in her own home, collecting dead moths, humming lullabies to shadows, and singing only where no human heart could hear her.

Then one night, a lonely star watched her from behind a gilded window.

And he could not look away.

A boy made of applause and sleepless longing saw something holy in her stillness. Something untouched. Something broken in the same places he was. What began as fascination bloomed into devotion, and devotion rotted carefully into obsession, curling thorn by thorn around both their throats.

Through decades drenched in perfume, velvet, bloodless smiles, stage lights, and whispered prayers, they became a love story stitched together from grief and hunger. A gothic fairytale where roses grew from wounds, sapphires glittered like tears beneath candlelight, and every kiss tasted faintly of ruin.

For some loves do not die beautifully.

Some linger.

Like perfume in a crypt.