The End

Dragana POV

Lady Asma had a gift for storytelling. The stories she shared played like moving pictures on the silver screen, showing the dialogue and emotions of them as if you were there, as if it was happening in real time. When I asked her to tell me about my father, nothing prepared me for what I was about to see. I remembered my father, but those memories were sporadic at best, not colorful and somehow a detached memory. Yet, as I was listening to her and watching the pictures become fluid, the memories became reality, and reality became emotion. I saw my mother, a beautiful young woman with the same silver eyes as mine, features as mine beam up at the young man, standing tall at around 6.7 feet, broad shoulders and tanned skin with eyes as dark as night, a smile as beaming as the sun as he looked at her. In his hands he had a rose, a singular white rose, my mother’s favorite flower. Their bond, their love, their instant mate connection electrified the memory and spread it to me,