Without a tug on the reins, Ticonderoga’s hooves stop at the castle. I dismount, flowers in hand. My heart adjusts to the expectations of seeing Serra. My eyes immediately dart to the topmost window.
Oh My Serra…long, brown tresses hidden under a thin veil, like her love for me through the delicacy of tender smiles and shy eyes.
Our secret was kept to the winds that separate us, we thought. Now I come, not as before, to place these flowers beneath this dying tree where she is buried – put to death for loving beneath her station. Oh My Serra.
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