Where Golden Light Resides



Sunlight dappling the grass with a mosaic of greens beneath an ancient oak when I was sketching. And then my eyes caught you. Sitting on a bench with a book cradled in your hands. Your hair is a crown of spun gold in the sun. It enthralled me. You're the portrait of quiet grace. My pencil moved instinctively, tracing the way light danced upon you.

Perhaps it's a fanciful notion, but I felt a pull I couldn't explain. It wasn't simply your undeniable allure, though you were quite magnificent. It was the way you seemed to hold the very essence of the golden hour within you, as if the light itself was drawn to your spirit.

Each day, I'd steal away to the park. Hoping that I might catch another glimpse of you. I'd bring my brushes and try to translate the very soul of that golden light onto my pages. I have this jar of honey-colored paint. The closest I can find to the color of your hair. I'll paint the leaves, the clouds, anything that reminds me of you.

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