He’s singing and dancing too, a his coat a muddle of colors that look only like something dark in this light. A shame, for all the things the darkness is hiding. He smiles at me; I smile back. Something about him looks kind. “They favor you,” he says.
I shake my head. “Hardly. They favor the sound. And they may favor you just as well, with your coat of stars.” I can just barely see the specs of white on his coat, turned moon-gold in the fireflies’ light. He’s handsome - in a subtle sort of way, like well-aged parchment covered in illegible, curling hand. Lovely, but indecipherable, and worn.
“I have not seen anything like this before. Sing with me. More than fireflies may favor you yet.” I’m humming again; I start to think it must be a tune from somewhere far away, and then remember, sheepishly, that it is my mother’s own. I suppose that I was not wrong, anyway.
@asterion
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
plotter
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