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The god of death was curiously silent for a few painstaking moments and when Proserpina was about to give up, thinking that he was not going to answer, his voice came out as a sigh… like a mournful whisper. ‘…Most stories are,’ Proserpina stares at the word ‘beloved’. The ink looked like it had been smeared. Like a teardrop has fallen and stained the page. “Whoever this was, this… beloved,” the young goddess finally deigns to say, when she was certain that her voice will come out steady, gloved fingers gently brushing over the faded word, knowing the words to be the truth before they even passed her lips, “…they certainly must be gone a long time ago.”

They entered a quaint bookstore, browsing the shelves for any new literature. “Do you remember this book?” Nathaniel asked, raising a children’s picture book from the shelf. Sarang smiled warmly, “How could I forget? It’s the book that taught me to read and speak. Master would challenge my knowledge, and you would come to my aid whenever I cried.” “I felt so proud to dependable because you weren’t afraid of reptiles, amphibians, or bugs.” “And birds too.” Sarang teased, a sly grin spreading across his face..

“I even told them to add extra chocolate sauce and chocolate chips to it.” I eyed the chilled drink unhappily, “I’m so tired.” “I know you are, cariño. That’s why I got you a Frap.” (Sweetie) An unhappy groan worked its way up my throat as I buried my head in my arms. I could feel Daniella’s hands threading into my curly locks, rubbing soothing circles to the base of my scalp. “You didn’t have any breakfast. Is that why you don’t want to drink your coffee?”

My darling, please pity your husband and come back home. I’m not scared anymore to tell you this. I love you, and I’ll prove it my whole life so you will believe it. Your husband, Samuel’

not images, videos or screen shots are to be taken out of this book unless authorised otherwise. Its atotal Lgbt relation and if you find yourself uncomfortable reading it. Then please just dismiss. Little erotic and little romance to it.

I have been watching them going out for lunch and giggling over silly videos, all while he kept bringing her coffee to her desk like a lovesick puppy just to have a chat. And honestly, it’s ridiculous. But who am I kidding? Anybody who doesn't fall for his kind soul is an idiot. “It’s…it’s just…he is your beloved,” she stutters. “But there is more. He—” Exhaling irritated, I glare at her as she trembles with rage. “The concept of the beloved is just something for the weak…and the animals, so they can believe they can find some happiness while being cursed. It’s ridiculous and you know it. I wouldn’t know why I should keep him. My head aches all the time.”

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There were no clues whatsoever. And then something occurred to her. “Read it again,” she said. “Slowly.” “‘And find the ones they loved,’” he read, slowly, “‘beside the fourth tip of the cross.’” “Beside,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “What?” he asked. “It says beside the fourth tip of the cross. Not at the fourth tip of the cross. Beside it,” she said. They both suddenly, at the same time, turned and looked at the large, stone building beside them.