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... opy of stars that sparkled like shimmering silver ink spilled across the heavens. Fragrant candles flickered softly, their warm glow casting gentle shadows in the corners of a room steeped in sweet memories, lingering unanswered questions, and a palpable honesty hanging in the still air.

Rinoa perched on the edge of the bed, her hair cascading like a waterfall of shadows, unhindered and free. From the bathroom emerged Fitran, still damp from his shower, with droplets clinging to his skin ...

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Gripes have their origins and debts have their creditors. We haven’t crossed each other in days past or present, nor formed any grudges. I am but duty-bound to carry this out, so apologies in advance!

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