LOGINAbigail, a struggling writer, time-travels to 19th century France, landing in the lavender fields of Provence. There she meets Vincent, a solitary artist with a mysterious past. Together, they explore the land and inspire each other's work, leading to a passionate, yet doomed, affair. As the hourglass drains, Abigail must choose between her modern life or her love for Vincent in the past
View MoreThe day was awash in gold and auburn hues when a crisp parchment arrived at Vincent's door. Abigail watched curiously as he broke the wax seal and unfurled the letter, reading its contents. His eyes widened in surprise, then twinkled with mischief. "What is it?" she inquired."It's an invitation," Vincent responded, showing her the intricately designed card. "To the Masquerade Ball at the Duke’s Château this weekend."Abigail gasped. The allure of a 19th-century masquerade was irresistible. "We must go," she insisted.Vincent nodded in agreement, though his expression had a hint of concern. "It's a grand event with influential attendees. Many will be curious about you, my mysterious companion."She smirked, feeling a surge of excitement. "Then let them be curious. It's a masquerade, after all. Everyone hides behind a mask."Over the next days, they were consumed with preparations. Abigail's anticipation was infectious. Vincent sketched ideas for their costumes, merging his artistic vi
The morning light was creeping in through the small window of the cozy cabin, casting a soft, ethereal glow on the slumbering figures entwined in a warm embrace. The previous day’s shared intimacy had deepened their connection, a bond strengthened by shared smiles, exchanged words, and quiet understandings.Vincent was the first to wake. As his gaze fell upon Abigail, her chest rising and falling gently in peaceful slumber, he marveled at her presence beside him. How an anomaly in time had led her to him was beyond his understanding, but he thanked the heavens nonetheless.He carefully extricated himself from the bed, attempting not to disturb Abigail's slumber. Draping a loose shirt over his bare chest, he moved quietly towards his makeshift studio, where his easel stood under the window, illuminated by the morning light. Picking up his paintbrush, he lost himself in his work, his strokes capturing Abigail's likeness from his vivid memories. An hour passed. The sun had risen higher,
The sun was particularly harsh that day, as if nature itself was protesting against the romance blossoming in the lavender fields of Provence. But neither Abigail nor Vincent seemed to mind. They spent their day like they usually did: Vincent with his canvas, and Abigail, often lost in the captivating beauty of the landscape and her lover's unwavering dedication to his craft.Abigail sat under the shade of a grand olive tree, absorbed in the book she had found in the cabin's petite library. It was a collection of folktales from the region, and she found herself fascinated by the age-old stories of love, betrayal, magic, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. Reading these tales gave her an even deeper appreciation for the era she had stepped into, its rich tapestry of culture and tradition wrapping around her like a well-worn quilt.Vincent, on the other hand, stood out in the sun with his easel and paints. His brushstrokes were deliberate and confident, each one transforming
In the days that followed their reunion, Abigail and Vincent fell into a comfortable routine, with the rhythm of life in 19th century France once again becoming familiar. Vincent would rise early to work on his art, the natural light of the early morning hours his favorite for painting. Abigail, meanwhile, found herself waking later, wrapped in the warm blanket of Vincent's embrace, their nights having been filled with whispered confessions and the rekindling of their love. One morning, Abigail emerged from the bedroom to find Vincent at his easel, completely absorbed in his work. She watched him from the doorway, taking in the sight of him, so immersed in his art that he didn't notice her presence. There was a look of intense concentration on his face as he applied stroke after stroke of vibrant color to the canvas. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tanned and toned forearms, and his hair was ruffled in a way that gave him a boyish charm. As if sensing her gaze, Vince
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