Romans & histoires Blossoms And Bones Music Festival

But I still styled myself as a widow and presided over this simple ceremony. In a filthy, chaotic back alley, he had shielded me as we narrowly escaped death, telling me not to be afraid. On the day he first came into possession of his own turf, he had held me and spun wildly around a dilapidated dance floor, paying no attention to the music. On our wedding day, he had guided my hand as it traced the tattoo on his chest. It was my name. I raised my hand and touched the cold tombstone. John walked up to me with a box that contained a withered rose.

The music swelled around them, the deep rhythm of drums vibrating through the stone beneath her feet, the sweet scent of winter roses and spiced wine wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. “I feel almost normal tonight,” she whispered against his shoulder, her voice barely audible over the music. “Like I can breathe without waiting for the shadows to reach for me.” Rowan pulled her closer, his cedar and winter air scent grounding her as they moved. “You are normal,” he murmured. “Strong. Beautiful. Choosing your own path. The Festival is celebrating that tonight — not just the Solstice, but the new beginnings we’re all trying to build.”