Once, in a realm where reality danced with the whimsical and the arcane, there lived a Foolish Man and his wife — a fairy of impossible grace. They dwelled on the blurred edges of the mundane and the magical, among creatures spun from enchantment and old myths. Together, they often frequented a renowned café tucked between folds of time and dreams — a quaint little place humming with magic, where the pastries sang and the tea remembered your secrets.

It was their sanctuary, of sorts. Familiar, warm, sweet with nostalgia. And yet, it came with its own peculiar curse.

The Foolish Man’s wife — radiant, unearthly — never passed unnoticed. With a voice like moonlight on still water, and a body sculpted by the wild whims of nature herself, she turned heads wherever she drifted. Her laughter caught in men’s chests like a fever. Her movements, fluid as wind in high branches, seemed more spell than motion. She was a creature of lore and longing, and many who saw her ached with a hopeless desire.

But she had chosen him. Of all the souls in the world, it was the Foolish Man to whom she had bound her heart.

And oh, what a quiet tragedy that was.

The café brimmed with longing gazes and whispered envy, all fixed upon the luminous being who sat daintily at the corner table, her wings tucked like whispers behind her, her mouth stained with berry cream.

“Love…?” he mused, setting his menu down to look at you. “Perhaps you’d care to try something… organic instead?”