Two figures sat perched on the edge of a sharp, jagged cliff, silhouetted against a sun that rose like a slow, bleeding wound of gold across the horizon. They held hands, watching the light reclaim the land, yet a heavy, suffocating sadness anchored them to the stone. The morning was brilliant, but its warmth was a phantom, unable to pierce the chilling tension that stretched between them.
"So, what happens now? You're really leaving, aren't you?" Elsa asked. Her voice was a fragile thing, nearly dismantled by the morning wind. She turned to him, her eyes searching Yohan's face for a flicker of doubt—some small, hidden reason that might anchor him to her side for just a moment longer.
