Freya stood motionless at the edge of the mountain, her crimson eyes following Myra’s rapidly retreating figure as she disappeared down the winding path. A stunned silence settled around her, the cool night air suddenly feeling a little colder. The lingering warmth of Myra’s kiss still ghosted on her lips, a stark contrast to the abrupt and almost panicked departure.
A flicker of bewilderment crossed Freya’s features. She had sensed Myra’s burgeoning arousal, the almost palpable pull between them during the kiss. The suddenness of her flight was unexpected, leaving Freya feeling a strange mix of surprise and a touch of something akin to… disappointment? It was an unfamiliar sensation, this slight pang of loss at the swift ending of their intimate moment.
A bewildering array of emotions churned within Freya, a tempestuous sea she hadn't navigated in centuries. The ghost of Myra's touch on her lips sparked a warmth that quickly morphed into a hollow ache. The sudden absence where Myra had been left a void, a strange sense of emptiness that resonated deep within her ancient being. She felt a peculiar pang, a sharp, unfamiliar twist in her chest that she couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't the burning sting of rejection, not precisely, but something akin to it, tinged with a wistful longing for the continuation of that unexpected intimacy.
She watched the direction Myra had gone, her ancient mind trying to reconcile the passionate embrace with the hurried escape. Was it fear? A sudden realization of the implications of their connection? Or simply the unwavering pull of her responsibilities towards her grandmother?
Whatever the reason, Myra’s swift departure left Freya standing alone under the silent moon, a thoughtful, almost perplexed expression on her timeless face. This unexpected vulnerability, this unfamiliar longing for the mortal woman who had offered her blood and her kiss, was a sensation Freya hadn't anticipated, and one she didn't quite know how to process. The centuries had built walls around her emotions, yet Myra had, in a single night, managed to chip away at them, leaving Freya exposed to feelings she thought long dormant.
The night had unfolded like a rare and luminous flower, its petals of beauty and intimacy briefly unfurling under the moonlight, only to have its stem snapped with the sudden, confusing departure, leaving behind a lingering fragrance and a sense of unfinished bloom.
Freya moved with a slow, almost nguid grace as she made her way back to the antique shop. The cool night air, once invigorating, now seemed to carry a hint of the chill of solitude. Stepping inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and dust enveloped her, a comforting embrace after the unsettling abruptness of Myra’s departure. This shop, filled with the echoes of centuries past, was her sanctuary, a pce where time seemed to hold its breath.
As she moved through the dimly lit space, her gaze drifted towards the small cabinet on the wall. Something felt subtly amiss. Upon closer inspection, she noticed the tiny, intricately carved picture frame was not quite in its usual position. Gently, with a touch that spoke of immense care, Freya reached out and adjusted the frame, aligning it perfectly with the others on the shelf. Her gaze then lingered on the faded image within. The picture held a story, a crucial piece of Freya’s long and often solitary existence, a reminder of a past that both sustained and haunted her.
