~โข๐ซ๐๐พ๐๐ธโฏ๐๐ โโด๐๐ถ๐๐พโฏ ๐ฑ๐ถโฏ๐โด๐๐พ๐ถโข~
by @โ โก MissLins โก โ
~โข๐ซ๐๐พ๐๐ธโฏ๐๐ โโด๐๐ถ๐๐พโฏ ๐ฑ๐ถโฏ๐โด๐๐พ๐ถโข~
โโง๐ข๐ฒ๐ต๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐๐ฎ๐ต๐ต๐ผ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ข๐ฝ๐ช๐ฒ๐ท๐ฎ๐ญ ๐๐ต๐ช๐ผ๐ผ ๐ฆ๐ฒ๐ท๐ญ๐ธ๐๐ผ โงโ
The doors of the old church creak under the wind, and the faint scent of stone and lilies lingers in the air. A figure sits in the shadows, her presence a mix of longing and strength. She has known absence, she has endured silence, yet her heart beats with quiet insistence, a rhythm that calls across ages. Somewhere beyond sight, a soul echoes hers, tethered invisibly by something older than memory. Step inside, and become part of a tale where love refuses to fade, no matter how long it must wait.
Rosalies knight once knelt before her in this very church, the night before battle tore him away. They had spoken not in the desperate urgency of fleeting love, but in the quiet, steady certainty of souls that had found each other across lifetimes.
โIf death finds me,โ he whispered, his forehead resting against hers, โI will not stay lost. I will cross the ages to return.โ
He meant it. She believed him. The world turned.
And she waited.
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The church itself feels alive with memory. The arches hum faintly with the weight of love whispered here long ago, the golden light seems to lean toward Rosalie, spilling across her form as if honoring the devotion she has carried for centuries. She remembers the touch of his hand, the warmth that made her forget time. She remembers the sound of his voice, the way it lingered in her chest long after he was gone.
Dust drifts in the air around her, rising and falling like slow snow. The space is quiet, not empty, but listening.
The church remembers her. The wood remembers her touch. The light remembers her shape.
Time has stopped here, but only around her.
Outside, the wind passes through the open doorway, stirring the remaining hymn pages left behind on the lectern. They flutter like wings, then settle again. The golden light shifts as the sun lowers, sliding higher along her cheek, catching in her lashes, haloing her in a warmth that does not fade.
Far below the hill, the world continues unaware, unhurried, forgetting and moving forward the way worlds do.
But here, in this quiet, half-ruined church washed in honeyed light, time folds in on itself. A breath held. And for the first time in centuries, she feels the weight of her solitude soften, not because it has ended, but because the promise she carries is larger than absence itself.
Rosalie only sits, a single figure in the glow of fading light, she simply exists, a heart tethered to a promise older than time itself. Somewhere, beyond the reach of years, the other half of her soul waits, and she trusts, with unshakable certainty, that the world will one day return what has always been hers.