3000 Years Of Longing Book Novels & Stories

Rosemary’s Pov “I will eat later…” I say softly , offering him a smile. He exchanges a look with Xavier , but I do not stay for the lectures that I know is coming. Instead I walk to the entrance and sit on the floor in a crossed legged position – my eyes fixated on the fiery red flames that almost touches the sky. I sit out there for a while , enjoying the peace of being alone. At this moment , all I ever want is to be alone. I would often feel my stomach kick me with hunger , as my nose smelt the food that was cooking but I easily turned my attention back to the burning kingdom.

Those quiet minutes after he falls asleep are precious, a pocket of stillness where the world doesn’t demand anything of me. It’s then that I open my laptop. The book started as nothing more than a coping mechanism. A way to bleed out thoughts too heavy to carry in silence. A way to place the ache somewhere outside my body so I wouldn’t drown in it. At first, I thought it would be a handful of pages, fragments, confessions I would never say aloud. But the words had a way of unraveling, of multiplying. Soon, pages turned into chapters. Chapters turned into a story.

And then she wrote about the thirty years. The village with the narrow road and the house that had become full of books because books were the company available without risk. The photograph in the wooden box. The annual calculation about whether this was the year to come back, and the answer always arriving as not yet, and the way not yet accumulated into a decade and then two decades and then three. The specific quality of a life lived in the anteroom of a decision that kept refusing to be made, and what that did to a person across thirty years.

The fireworks were custom-designed to form a starry sky pattern that Vera loved and would burst at the most romantic moment, spelling out her name. He sampled every dish and scrutinized the vintage of the champagne more than once. Carson watched him and could not help teasing, "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were about to be crowned king." Wyatt ignored him. He lowered his head and checked the time on his watch. Thirty minutes until their planned meeting. Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Vera never showed up. Wyatt stood on the rose-covered terrace, unconsciously caressing the pink padparadscha ring in his pocket. He called her countless times. Every call went unanswered.

"This holds the origins of Eclisia, the prophecy, and the tale of the pendant." Hesitating for a moment, I reached out and touched the tome. It felt warm, pulsating with an energy that seemed to resonate with my very being. Richard's voice echoed in my mind, *"We're ready. Together."* Taking a deep breath, I opened the book. Images, sounds, and emotions washed over me. Scenes of a world long forgotten, of love and betrayal, power and sacrifice, played out. Lysandra narrated, "Centuries ago, Eclisia was a realm where time itself danced to the whims of its inhabitants. But with great power came great envy."

"Something's been sealing this place for thirty years." "Not a lock," Isaac said, crouching beside her, studying the hatch's edge more closely. "Something else. Something that's been waiting, not guarding." Elara looked up at him. "Waiting for what?" Isaac didn't answer. None of them needed him to. Jonathan had expected someone to reach this exact hatch, standing in this exact spot, ready to go down. He simply hadn't known who, or when. The hatch lifted with a groan of protest, hinges thirty years disused shrieking against the effort, and a blast of cold air rose up out of the darkness beneath, sharp, stale, thick with the particular silence of a space that hadn't tasted open air in decades.

She closed them for a long moment. "He learned it from Cedric." "Yes." "He has been doing it for twenty-one years without anyone to tell him where it came from." "Yes." She opened her eyes. She set her hand over mine on the cup. "I am going to go find Kade tomorrow. I am going to tell him." "Good, mama." "Good." The fourth night, she told me about the book. My father had a favorite book. It had been on his desk in the Ashvale household. It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting.

I almost had to force myself to wait before inviting her to meet me in real life. Finally, I got to hold the hand of the person I'd dreamed of for over two decades.

"Savannah! This isn't a game. Marriage is serious. Are you really sure about this? "I stood by you for 20 years, and you never once said you wanted to marry me. So, why are you now choosing to marry a stranger? And to make matters worse, you're living so far away. Aren't you ashamed?" "I'm not acting on impulse. Every decision I've made has been carefully considered," I answered evenly. They thought they had waited for me all this time, but the truth was, I had been waiting for them just as long. For all those years, I clung to the belief that the bond between me and the Hawthorne brothers could never be broken.

After half a year, they only took the money and no longer replied. At that point, Thomas's phone rang. He hurried off to clock out. I took one last look at Lisa's file, then stood up and went home. In the shower, I pulled off my scarf and exposed the vicious, ugly scar on my neck. Samantha had caused it. Ten years ago, in the spring, I couldn't reach her—and Zane had vanished too. Gritting my teeth, I used the last of my money to buy a cheap plane ticket and went to look for her.