I stare.
Slack-jawed.
Vacant.
It feels as though my soul has just exited my body, taken a brief stroll, and decided not to return.
Before me—Duke Tristan. Lady Genevieve.
Running away.
Fast.
Very fast.
As fast as my hopes that were just shattered without a chance to say goodbye to the fate that snatched away my deepest and purest imagination.
Stillness.
Silence.
The night feels colder. And I am still standing there… with a blackened body. With grass everywhere. With my dignity caught in the underbrush.
Clara stares at me.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
Like someone watching a child… whose ice cream just fell to the ground. And the child is still asking, "My ice cream… fell?" and Clara only nods, fearing her child will have a tantrum.
"My Lady…" Clara calls softly.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then reality hits me like the sudden realization that salt tastes salty, not sweet.
"…Is it over?" my voice is faint. "…Just like that?" I continue.
