The girl stands clad in white surrounded by fields of her childhood. The new growth is a herald of that which will soon blossom, blossom and wither, left for winter to consume the dry leaves.

This transience is worthy of worship, sacrifice that the gods cannot make. Sorrow that they cannot know forms the tears that spill over the budding flowers. She will be gone before the blossoms fall.

She is sacred and mortal, and must be handled like spun glass. She has turned the ice in Gentiana's chest to meltwater, taken a goddess apart at the seams. She does not resist the finger that reaches for her jawline, set in determination, still, but not passive. Her choice and will resonates in every action. They mirror, curve into each other, mortal and divine, light and shadow. The kiss is as light as the touch of a petal, as brief as the fall of a snowflake. It, too, shall resonate in eternity.
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