Most girls consider Paris the _ultimate_ locale, but for me, it's the countryside of Ireland. And while it may not have a twinkling tower or cafes on every corner, there's a rugged, wildly romantic be.
She carefully rested on a tree while she tried to calm down her breathing. She couldn't help Looking back at the house which kept her captive since she was a child. The house she grew up in was the house she wished could burn in hell forever.
Every time she dashed out to meet him in the orchard in secret, she felt hope swell in her heart, and she couldn't help noticing that the world turned lavender crimson to match her desire. Must be fairy magic.
She watched how careful he was to place the dirt gently around the tree. It startled her to think that those soft white hands would grow to grip worlds in anger. The future was a terrible thing to know.