Cupid

She was draped in a dress of lamb’s wool, the fibers as white as freshly fallen snow, yet somehow shimmering with an inner glow that caught the morning light and turned it into a thousand tiny halos. People paused, breath catching on the cold air, and whispered, “She’s the most beautiful sheep lady we’ve ever seen.” It wasn’t just her appearance—though her eyes were the deep, amber of polished ambergris, and her hair, a cascade of ivory curls, seemed to move of its own accord, as if some invisible wind loved to play among the strands.She turned. The movement was a slow, deliberate ballet, the wool of her dress rippling like waves of silk. As she faced me, the whole market seemed to fall away, the lilacs and ribbons blurring into a soft focus. Her amber eyes locked onto mine, and for a heartbeat I saw—no, felt—every love story ever whispered in Willow Creek: the shy boy who gave a rose to his first crush, the elderly couple holding hands on their porch, the midnight promise of a newborn’s first kiss.