Words are seeds, Casiopea. With words you embroider narratives, and the narratives
breed myths, and there's power in the myth. Yes, the things you name have power.
Is that why you stare at the stars?” he asked. “Are you searching for beauty or dreaming with your eyes wide open?
He'd fallen in love slowly and quietly, and it was a quiet sort of love, full of phrases left unsaid, laced with dreams.
And that was that. You don't get to rewind your life like a tape and splice it back together, pretending it never knotted and tore, when it did and you know it did.
There was sadness in her, of course, but she didn't wish to crack like fine china either. She could not wither away. In the world of the living, one must live. And had this not been her wish? To live. Truly live.
Ah, there is none more fearful of thieves than the one who has stolen something, and a kingdom is no small something.
The things you name grow in power.
Look at you, like the dawn. You can't understand, of course, but one day you'll want to be new again. You'll wish to return to this moment of perfection when you were the embodiment of all promises.