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A frail figure, clad in all black, stood at the edge of the river that connected her village to his. Gliding one of her obsidian gauntlets off, Maeli unconsciously dipped her hand deep within the chilling water. Yet she felt no burn, no discomfort with the biting liquid, all of her sensitivities were numb by the lost of him. There was nothing that could rival the pang she felt in her heart when she lost him, deep within the veiling waters. There were days where she woke up convulsively, drenched in her own sweat, then crying herself back to an unwanted trance, where she met with the agonizing visage of her lover. The day time was filled with constant reveries about small boat trips under a remote bridge, treks to the village market, and their fused laughter. Though they couldn’t be seen in daylight together and most of their rendezvous were held deep within the night, just a glimpse of him was enough to comfort her. His rare faculty to make her knees weak, her heart do somersaults, and her eyes shine, was enough to prove to her that they were connected by a red string of fate. 

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