Long ago, in a quiet village tucked between mist-covered mountains, there lived a young girl named Elara, whose eyes reflected the beauty of the dawn. One evening, as the sun whispered its last light to the sky, Elara stumbled upon a hidden garden, veiled by ancient stone walls and wild ivy. In the heart of this garden stood a single rose, its petals frozen in time, shimmering with a frost that defied the warmth of the air.
Legend says the rose was not of this world, but a creation of lost love—a promise once made, now frozen by the hands of fate. Elara, drawn by its haunting beauty, reached out to touch it. In that moment, the memories of her own parents—laughter, warmth, love—rushed back to her heart, and she knew the rose was hers to claim.
It is said that from that day, Elara carried the frozen rose with her always, a symbol of love both lost and preserved. And when the winds of sorrow blew strong, she would hold the rose close, feeling its stillness remind her that some loves, though they fade from the world, never truly leave. They remain, frozen in time, a part of the heart forever.
Thus, the legend of the Frozen Rose lives on, a timeless tale passed through the ages, reminding all who hear it that even the briefest of loves can leave an everlasting mark.
Celine Ashwynd potrayed by young Anya Taylor Joy. Celine Ashwynd was born in the cliffside village of Norwyn Hollow, a wind-blown place where time felt slower, and every cottage leaned just slightly toward the sea. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her father—a cartographer once known for his beautiful, hand-drawn maps—vanished during an expedition when she was barely a year old. Raised by her grandmother, a woman who spoke in riddles and lullabies, Celine grew up surrounded by maps with no names and stories that felt more like dreams than truth.
Even as a child, she was different. Strange, the villagers whispered—not unkindly, but with the careful distance people use when they don’t understand something. She wandered too far, asked questions no one wanted to answer, and always seemed to be listening for something no one else could hear. It was early spring, and the sea had washed something strange onto the cliffs—bits of wood, fabric, the glint of twisted metal. Most believed it was wreckage from a ship lost in the night fog. But Celine felt something calling. She followed the trail farther than anyone else dared, down a ravine where the wind howled like a voice, and there, half-buried in silt and wildflowers, was the body of a man. His coat was torn, his eyes closed, and clutched in his hand was a small object: a compass, its glass cracked, the brass casing dented and worn.
She took it without thinking. It was cold in her palm, but the needle stirred. It shook. Then pointed. North. Unwavering.
And in that moment, something inside her shifted—like a puzzle piece locking into place.
Her grandmother, upon seeing it, had gone silent for the first time in Celine’s memory. Then she whispered: „That doesn’t point north, child. It points home.”
“. . . Under the vault of a darkly, starry night, I sat alone on a cold bench. It was past midnight when I saw her— soft, glazed by the honey-toned moon glints. She wore a black velvet cape, covered at the neck with a white jabot, made of lace. Her fingers, of delicate length, were clad in silky fur gloves, hyacinth-colored. I was then solitary, thoughtful, burdened by the approach of the snow, not expectingly of another one’s breath, other than my own. I was dressed in a frock-gray coat, underneath a burgundy vest, with leather fur gloves lined with wool. She approached me and asked: ‘How can one be happy when is utterly alone?’ . . . The following nights we would come again at the bench. I met her at the same hour, at the same spot—we would then chat and chat until the first light. I thought as she was made of soft, sweet summer wind. But we met in winter, and only the thought of seeing her every night warmed my cold, vacant soul. . . . One night, as she hurries to leave, says to me: ‘Take my glove, Eugene, for I cannot give you my hand, that is how much I came to be afflicted by you, and give me yours. Take it. So we will remember each other.’ I said to her, fire with anguish: ‘Is this a fare-well? Will I see you again?’ The next night I waited. And then I saw her, but with someone else.”
. . .Theodore Berrycloth read the letter, undated, with its edges decayed; he felt as if the yellowed cotton paper almost shattered under his touch. He is a history teacher and an antique enthusiast. He found this old trunk in the university library, in a section untrodden by one’s foot, while trying to find a rare archaeology book. The more he looked inside, the more peculiar he felt, for the two gloves were there, restless, mismatched, frayed. He then finds himself thinking: There is a sweet bitterness in what we are losing.
(inspired by the white nights by dosto, bc i love that book sm)
“And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve because you had not even time to love her.”
Anthony Gallagher (Jeremy Allen White) has thought he invented a device to detect vampires, but little did he know that actually the enchantress Juliette Beauchamp (Madchen Amick) was the reason the device worked. Otherwise it would have been only a pocket watch with a cracked face. The enchantress wanted the vampires gone, these abomination creatures bringing only chaos in her little loved village. Making everyone to believe that Anthony created the device was the perfect method to use magic without being discovered. For Anthony, the pocket watch was a sweet memory from his father that was murdered by a vampire. Believing he can get revenge for his late father using his own pocket watch was increasing Anthony’s confidence. Finally, one by one, the vampires that were suffocating the village started to vanish and Anthony became the most powerful hunter of supernatural creatures in the 1860s.
Kasimir Wahnfried (Mads Mikkelsen) had spent years chasing ghosts through brittle pages and dust-choked ruins, searching for whispers of the Severed Covenant—a faith so thoroughly erased that even its absence felt deliberate. When he found the tabernacle, it was little more than a husk, its altar stripped bare, its air thick with silence. Only the great stained-glass window remained, its colors muted beneath a century of dust. He wiped it away with his sleeve—and the glass cracked like a thing exhaling. A shard tumbled into his palm, warm as breath, pulsing with something half-remembered. He barely heard his own footsteps as he fled, the fragment clutched to his chest. Now, when held to the light, the shard bleeds visions—of places he has never walked, faces blurred yet achingly familiar. Some nights, he wonders if it was fate that led him to the tabernacle. Other nights, he fears it was something else. And whatever it is, it is waiting.
background: Marek had heard the stories, the village legends about the lantern that flickered through the woods, appearing at the edges of the forest on moonless nights. It was said to be a relic, tied to old magic, its flame never burning bright enough to guide but always just enough to haunt.
One night, while out walking the woods near his home, Marek found it. The lantern sat abandoned beneath an ancient oak, its light barely a whisper in the dark. The moment his hand touched it, the flame flared unnaturally bright before flickering back to its dull, sickly glow. Marek didn’t want to take it, but he couldn’t leave it either. Something about it felt wrong, like it was calling him.
The lantern never seemed to help. It didn’t illuminate his path, didn’t show the way, it only followed him, flickering in the corner of his vision. It led him to strange places, forgotten ruins, empty graves. Each time he touched it, the air grew colder, and whispers filled his mind, always just out of reach. The more he held onto it, the more he felt like something was shifting beneath the surface like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to remember something. Now, Marek carries the lantern everywhere. Not because he wants to, but because it seems to be inextricably linked to him, pulling him toward a past he can’t recall, but knows deep down he’s a part of. Whatever the lantern is, it’s more than just an object, it’s a piece of something lost, something unsettling, and sometimes, when the lantern flickers in the dead of night, Marek swears he hears a voice in the whispers. A voice that sounds eerily familiar, as though it’s been waiting for him to listen.
Lucian Vardis, fc: Jonathan Rhys Meyers, pin.it/4t3eYwPMh Background— Lucian was once a charismatic, powerful aristocrat who enjoyed both influence and wealth. However, his life was changed forever after an affair with a forbidden love—a woman whose mysterious origins were known only to a select few. She was bound by a secret that could change the fate of an entire empire. In his obsession with this woman, Lucian made an unholy pact to gain the power to secure her affection. The pact was to take him into realms beyond the natural world. But his love was ultimately unrequited, and instead of granting him eternal bliss, it condemned him to eternal torment. The affair shattered his soul, and the power he sought twisted him into something he could never escape. The rusty key came into Lucian’s possession under the darkest of circumstances. It was given to him by an old, dying oracle—a woman who had foreseen his future and wanted to offer him a chance at redemption. She claimed that the key would lead him to a hidden chamber that contained the answers to all his suffering. However, there was no lock to fit it. She explained that the key was not for any door in the physical realm, but for the door within his heart, a symbolic passage that would grant him freedom from his never-ending torment. He carried the key for centuries, convinced that the answers it promised could never truly be found. The key became a cruel reminder of his endless search for meaning in a life that had long since lost its direction. At times, he would stare at the rusted metal, hoping the right lock would reveal itself, but it never did. The key symbolized his futile pursuit of redemption and his inability to escape the sins of his past. Now, as Lucian wanders the modern world—always with the key on his person—he is a man divided. He is charming yet cruel, beautiful yet broken. The key is his constant companion, a token of his enduring hope and crushing despair. Deep down, Lucian knows that there is no lock to fit this key, and perhaps, that is the cruelest twist of all: a symbol of his inability to ever truly escape the darkness he has embraced. -maktub
A reclusive lighthouse keeper, Vardr found the journal wedged in a beam, left by the last keeper — a man who’d documented storms, starless nights, and the slow passage of time. He added sparse notes of his own: “lichen on rocks, gulls stealing bread, the hollow hum of silence.” Not to remember, but to say: “I was here. It meant nothing. I wrote it anyway.” What Vardr, in his nihilistic disdain, failed to see was that by his meagre contribution, which bound up with that of the keeper before him, a continuum was being pressed on, of the human condition, absurd as it may be, against the backdrop of meaninglessness. And perhaps, in that, there was a kind of meaning after all.
'On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the patess sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.'
Background: Seki Sadayoshi had spent years in secret, quietly loving his sister's fiancé, Kaeda. From the moment he first saw Kaeda, there was a magnetic pull Seki couldn’t explain, a yearning he buried deep within himself. Over the years, he wrote countless letters to Kaeda—letters filled with confessions of love and adoration, burning fantasies he could never speak aloud. But Seki never sent them, knowing his love could never be returned. Kaeda belonged to someone else, and Seki was only a shadow in their love.
But one autumn evening, something within Seki shifted. With a heart full of desperate courage, he wrote one final letter, pouring his soul into the words: "Kaeda-san, my heart has always been yours, but I cannot remain lost in the dark. Please, do not turn away from me. I love you more than anything, please spare me the pain. I cannot do this any longer." He sealed it with wax, his hands trembling as he sent it, finally daring to speak his truth.
What came back was not the response he had hoped for. The letter, crumpled and torn, returned to him as if it had been cast aside the moment it arrived. The wax seal broken, the ink smudged, it was a rejection of everything Seki had felt—proof that it was too late. Kaeda and Adaki (Seki's sister) were about to marry, and the love Seki had carried in silence was lost, buried beneath the weight of time.
Now, Seki keeps that crumpled letter in a drawer, the wax broken and the words unread. It is no longer a confession but a relic of a love that never was—a symbol of the quiet, unspoken affection that will always remain his secret grudge.
Ⅱ, Task... Create a fictional character (FC) connected to the item you’ve chosen. Craft a backstory that explains the item's significance to your character and how they came to possess it.
Ⅰ, Snatch... pocket watch with a cracked face ⋄ crumpled letter sealed with wax broken compass that still points north ⋄ iv single rose frozen in time flickering hazy lantern ⋄ shard of stained glass from odd tabernacle old dusty dun leather-bound journal, empty only one cryptic symbol pair of mismatched gloves, bit frayed ⋄ rusted key with no lock to fit
Trimite mesajÎnapoiNu poți trimite un mesaj fără conținut!Nu este permisă folosirea de cod HTML in mesaje.Mesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de securitate. Va rugam sa ne contactati prin email pe adresa office@sunphoto.roMesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de posibil spam. Va rugam sa ne contactati prin email pe adresa office@sunphoto.roMesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de posibil spam. Ati trimis prea multe mesaje in ultimul timp.A apărut o eroare în timpul trimiterii mesajului. Vă rog încercați din nou.Mesajul a fost trimis.
