Moonlight spills through an open window, illuminating every nook and cranny in a dark hospital room, accompanied by a silent howl of wind singing the songs of forgotten tales. At the corner of the room a boy with silk, black hair bouncing back the moonlight onto his porcelain pale skin, long dark eyelashes and blood-red lips sleeps on an armchair. The serene light casted upon the boy made him look like a ghost who is ready to disappear any given moment.

But Neoma was focused on something else. This sight of Lucien sleeping across from her was nothing new. Though she can't get enough of this sight, she tried not to look at it, or else she'd be entranced again with every tick of time passing by, seeing as the boy in front of her bathing in moonlight turn from a celestial being of the night into the god of Rah as dusk settled in. So instead of coming off as a creep, she turned her back against him and instead was entranced by her cell-phone, tapping on "next chapter" cliff-hanger after cliff-hanger, whilst cursing at the author for not letting her finally go to sleep.

'I'd be damned if this goes on'

A deep yawn escapes from my lips as I again fall for the trap called "next chapter". With heavy eyes, I look up at the clock. 3:09 am. Sleepy limbs hinder me from sitting up but my urge to quench my dry throat won over my heavy body and I proceed to drag my limp body to the bathroom to fetch myself a glass of water. With an almost empty glass in my left hand, I watch the night scenery outside the window. Snowflakes slowly danced their way to the ground and sharp cool air blew through my white nightgown, sending a shiver down my spine. Something about that gust of wind made me uneasy yet like a sirens song it bewitched me to the window. I put my glass on a table by the window and lay half asleep my head on my arms, resting on the windowsill.

As I was ready to enter the land of fantasies I notice a quite peculiar man sitting on a bench down on the clinics entrance-way. In my sleep-deprived state, the white powder surrounding him looked like clouds and something deep inside urged me to be by his side.

Icicle pierces the sole of my feet and with a snap out of an entrancement, I find myself only a few meters away from him. Outside the wind blew stronger than I expected and though I stood bare-feet on snow without a jacket to at least cover my upper body, I didn't feel cold. I inspect the man across me. There he sat on the white covered bench looking up at the moon. Though the winds were almost slashing strong, a faint whisper glide off the hood on his coat from his head, uncovering snow-white hair and an ethereal face of a man in his late 20s. Examining his face I found my feet proceeding to take steps towards that man although I can't remember sending my feet a signal to move, I also didn't stop them. I couldn't stop them. The torturing yearning in his eyes as he looked up at the moon agonized my heart. What must someone do to earn such terror on ones face?

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

I sit beside him following his gaze to the moon. Something about this view was like a deja-vu. Now both of us watch as white flakes fall from the sky disappearing in the light of the night's goddess, then reappearing and melting on the white carpet.

"Isn't she beautiful tonight?"

The silence is interrupted with a brittle voice.

'Does he mean the moon?'

I dared not to speak.

"What I would do to see her once again."

I take my eyes off the moon to look at him, only to see that he already broke his gaze from the moon, yet the longing in his eyes remained the same. He looked at me like I was the person he was oh, so longing for but deep inside my soul I knew these gentle eyes were not meant for me.

"Do you love her that much?"

I asked him with a quiet voice. His pale hand reached after a strand of hair in front of my sight, tucking it behind my ears. I know this gentleness wasn't for me but oh, how I wished someone would handle me as fragile as he does.

Here I sit in the snow with no shoes nor a jacket but only a thin linen cloth covering my frail body, shivering not from the cold around me but by the touch from the icy fingers of this man sitting beside me.

"Just promise me that you'll keep your word."

His voice was breaking. If it weren't for his clear eyes I would have almost been deceived into thinking that he was about to cry. But his eyes were dry. So dry not even the glistening moonlight could be reflected on that soulless stare. His gaze returns to the full moon upon us.

How sinful must you have to be, to deserve such torture while looking at your most loved one so heavenly?