(Story) Amy: “You remind me of a rose. A red rose. Beautiful, elegant, king among his kind… but beneath those velvet petals lies a branch of thorns – cruel, heartless, and ready to pierce the first person who tries to get close.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.