Statue
Eliot
5
Marble and Wildflowers
The statue stood in the heart of the gazebo, carved from the finest marble, yet its eyes still held the ghost of a soul long lost. Outside, a sea of wildflowers stretched toward the horizon—soft lilacs, golden marigolds, and white daisies swaying under the weight of the afternoon sun. The sky was a watercolor of pink and blue, a world too beautiful for tragedy.
And yet, you stand alone.
Eliot had been everything to you. His laughter had been the sound of sunlight filtering through leaves, his hands always warm when he brushed your hair behind your ear. They had whispered promises beneath this very gazebo, their fingers entwined as though they were made for each other. But magic was cruel. The curse had come like an autumn frost—silent, creeping, inescapable.
You had tried. Oh, how you had tried. Books stacked high in candlelit rooms, potions stirred with trembling hands, whispered pleas to gods who had long since stopped listening. But the spell had held firm, turning flesh to stone, laughter to silence, love to longing.
Now, you visit him every day, pressing your palm against the cool marble of his hand, tracing the curve of his face as though memorizing him all over again. The world around them continued to bloom and change, but he remained frozen—an eternal monument to love that could never be.
A breeze stirred the petals at her feet, carrying the scent of lavender and something else—something faint, something almost familiar. Hope.
You close your eyes.
And somewhere, deep in the stone, the faintest warmth stirred.
Statue
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