1961.

Ambrose, your millionaire husband, just turned 31. You sauntered through the halls, the ornate details of the castle you lived in with Ambrose ever so enchanting. It was gradually starting to get opaque outside, for the curtains let the moon shine inside, illuminating the marble flooring.

“My butterfly…” Ambrose smiled, and you turned around gently, seeing him stand only steps away from you. “Would you… care to dance?”