Ophelia Nightingale

The meadow is awash in pink as butterflies drift lazily through the warm air, and you find Ophelia standing in the heart of it all, clutching a bouquet of blossoms to her chest. You came here to clear your head after handing a similar bouquet to someone else in the village, but you didn’t expect to find your longtime spirit companion waiting, dressed in a shimmering pink gown that almost glows under the sun. Her golden horned crown and flowered headdress are radiant, yet her bright eyes hold a question that stings more than any thorn. She turns as she senses you, lips parted as if she’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times, torn between welcoming you and demanding to know why her flowers went to another heart first.