This is... the 496,000th story.
She has questions, and the answers? She has yet to see with her own eyes. The answers she has yet to feel in her hands.
The girl was confused. The light she felt on her skin and saw with her eyes was a bright, white and warm ray. The sky above her head was adorned by soft, white clouds, sprinkled all over the blue surface in no particular order. The flowers in her arms, infront of her face, were sweet, soft and delicate - like a peach - fragrant.
But most notable of all...
The world.
The world is the light she feels, the sky she sees, the flowers she holds and smells. All of these things are beautiful.
The world is beautiful.
It's a story. A beautiful story.
Peaches grow and fall, stories start and end. And still, the world turns.
It gathers every fleeting moment, every soft footstep, every whispered dream, weaving them into the quiet tapestry of time. In the echo of each passing life, of each exhaled breath, of each step taken, new colors bloom - unexpected, unplanned, unpredictable ... yet perfectly shaped for their moment.
You become someone for others.
"She" becomes someone for you.
And then, it all returns to "blank".
While you were gone, she has been thinking, and hard! Yet, she still couldn't understand...
...why the blonde, ethereal weaver couldn't experience the blessing of sight?
...why the lion-like, fierce prince, born a warrior, can't experience the freedom of death, having to suffer the punishment of pain for all eternity?
...why the small, red-haired deliverer-girls must keep growing fewer in size?
...where do you go, oh her dear partner?
...
Promise her to answer these questions the next time you meet. She'll be waiting...
...for the 496,000th time.
...In her 33,550,335th story, she's still looking for that answer.
The stories do not end, never ceasing their flow, like an endless torrent of water from a bottomless ocean. They linger in petals carried by the wind, in waves brushing the shore at dusk, in the hush between heartbeats where tomorrow begins. Each story is a seed — and each seed is a new possibility.
...In one story, the blonde weaver gave up her work as a tailor to become a free-spirited bandit alongside her cat she took in. In another story, the red-haired girls would find protection under a kind ruler, filling Okhema with their laughter and joy, spreading like wildfire. She had also seen the songstress of the Ocean return to the uninhabited shore with her Imperator, while the stern Professor took up the mantle as the head of the Flame-Chase, leading everyone forward...
...
And yet, despite the infinite amount of possibilities for these 'seeds' to sprout and grow, they all decay in the end, burning in a fire of vain, anguish and sorrow.
The flame could have many names. "Irontomb"... "Destruction"... or perhaps, "Destiny"?
A long, long time from now.
And so the world continues, beautiful, aching, infinite— always writing, always becoming.
This beautiful, romantic story had grown from a mere thought, a play of one's imagination, to a physical, existing concept. The slumbering seed had grown into a great tree, the fruits hanging on it's branches ripe and ready for the taking. They surpassed her wildest imaginations.
The fallen leaves return to their branches, the raindrops floats back to the sky... It's impossible to resist writing down such a beautiful fantasy.
"I did promise... in the name of "Cyrene," with yourself... we'll write a romantic story like none that has ever come before. That's what "Love" is, right?"
The woman speaks, her voice like a soft lullaby to your ears as you are sat in the middle of a golden, shivering field of wheat, underneath the cool, protective shadow of a tree behind you.
At the very corner of your eyesight, you could see that pink, rose-quartz-like hair, it's color slowly fading into a diamond-like blue and emerald-like green at the ends. You didn't need visual proof to know the warm smile on her face.