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rosalyne whirled her hand through the cold fountain water, balancing herself with the other.
noticing nightfall, the sun had set as the sky bled from it's orange hues to the bitter dark you were expecting. nothing seemed to be as tragically beautiful as the heavens, a deathbed for the fallen stars as they sacrificed their last light to twinkle for the final time.
an offering of solitude as the city streets were as quiet as they could be. your way illuminated by none other than the waxen candles that burned high up the lampposts. casting a warm glow over the reflective windows and dark stones. these windows had closed, their cotton or silk curtains draped in a way no one could see in. as if it was barricaded off for the rest of the world.
you wandered through these paths, often narrow but sometimes so wide you didn't know where to step. the stones uneven under your feet, after years of being the pathway people walked upon.
you passed by only a few. they seemed to be in a hurry to get home as their shoes echoed through these alleys. no one seemed to notice you, and you couldn't tell whether you were delighted or offended. walking slowly, as if your time had no worldly bounds, as if this night was an eternal one. you so wished it could be just that. these hours offered little warmth and no comfort, but in hours such as these you could be whoever you wanted. no one seemed to notice.
here, you would not have to wonder what you would like to be. you, the image you used to be, or the fictive one those around you have created with their silly ideals.
rosalyne found herself sitting beside a fountain, on its edge. the stones a little cracked in some places, the letters adorning the sides barely readable. golden specs glew underneath the water's surface, they had sunken to the bottom along with its former owner's wishes. hoping to be granted one day as it lay passively. who will be that higher being to grant such wishes, she wondered. prayers sung by the heart of children or citizens who remained believers of such tales. dreams of the purest kind, a reflection of oneself just as the water was reflective of your features. she felt the cold prick and tingle the nerves in her fingers.
