People seemed to think I died 10 years ago. That my husband, in a fit of animalistic rage, came at me with a knife and stabbed me until I bled out. No one came to my funeral, not even my friends and family. My husband made sure of it. What he didn't know was that I had survived the ordeal and was now planning my revenge.

The kiss ended, leaving Hari utterly disoriented—not just by the feeling, which was exhilarating and sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine, but by the sheer terror of what it meant. She stumbled backward, running a hand through her hair. Tae was the CEO; she was just an employee! This was a disaster waiting to happen. "Tae, stop. We can't. This is wrong," Hari whispered breathlessly, her voice strained.

Chiara's life was not measured in days, but in the motion of the tides and the rotations of the great Fresnel lens. Every day at sunset, she would climb the seventy-seven spiral steps, the brass railings cool beneath her fingertips, until she reached the lantern room. With a steady hand, Chiara would ignite the massive lamp, unleashing a powerful beam that began its slow, deliberate sweep across the darkening waters of the ocean.

Rosetta sat on her overturned crate at her little stall at a busy subway station, the rich scent of roses a fragrant shield against the city's nostril-flaring exhaust. Tattered clothing covered her frail, aging body as she sold her wares. She sat silently, almost blending into the background, and the intoxicating perfume of her blooms drifted down the crowded hallway, catching the attention of those momentarily distracted from their morning rush.

The rain outside their house was a gentle metronome, tapping against the wide window. Inside, the only light came from the soft glow of the floor lamp. Yeon-na was curled on the velvet sofa, tracing a line of ornate, careful script with her finger in a beautiful, time-worn book that belonged to her soulmate. Yang-jun watched her from the armchair, a mug of steaming Earl Grey tea cooling in his hands.

A promise between two people, Who care for each other deeply. For one cannot bear to see the other, Face the stinging harshnesses of life. Given that no individual in love, Wishes to see beloved soulmates suffer. Cause the pain their lovers endure, Brings greater pain to them as well.

Everyone is different, Leading in unknown directions. Each of them is a single choice, That we must have the will to make. There is no turning back, For the past will remain the past. Journey down the path of life, To pursue the bright future that is yours to have.

The alarm went off at 4:45 AM, not for a flight, but for the launch of the Bearista Cup. It was a limited-edition glass mug with a green and white striped straw in the shape of a bear wearing a green toque with the words "Starbucks" written on it. Collectors had been buzzing for weeks. I had to have it.

The office was silent, save for Tae's nervous pacing. Hari was supposed to meet him for a late dinner an hour ago, but her phone was dead and her apartment was empty, save for a single overturned chair. He had spent the last sixty minutes trying to rationalize her ignoring his calls when his private line rang with an unregistered number calling. 

The rain outside the parsonage had not ceased, mirroring the turbulent emotions Liam Darcey felt as he stood before Rosette. He began, as he had planned, by declaring his ardent feelings for her, but something in Rosette's fiercely averted gaze stopped him before he could utter another word. Instead, a different truth spilled from his lips. "I am aware that you believe I have acted dishonourably toward your sister and Mr.

The old leather armchair in the corner wasn't her husband's anymore. It was Milly's. Technically, Milly was a dog—a fluffy, 15-pound Shih Tzu with a pushed-in face and a constantly wagging tail. Though to the loving older couple, Jean and Scott, she was simply Milly. She had arrived eight years ago, a shivering wreck at the local shelter, and had walked into their quiet, empty-nester home as if she'd always belonged there.

The Bellini she was nursing was losing its chill, and so was Asanashia. She glanced at the door of the crowded bar—for the millionth time—then back at her purple fruit brand phone. 8:15 PM. Her date was officially 45 minutes late. The humiliation was beginning to grate on her nerves. The vampiress closed her eyes and mentally chanted her mantra, trying to calm herself before all hell broke loose.

Someone you can talk to, About the worries on your mind. They won't offer advice, So don't expect it. Only a listening ear, While you rant about life. Perhaps they will give you a friendly smile, Or a sympathetic look. Depends on what kind, Of the Worry Doll you have.

It's never a question of "if", Only a matter of "when". The sun may never rise again, For the sea will boil and the sky shall fall. Don't wait to say your last goodbyes, Cause time is running out. Broken hearts beat, As the world sits on a ticking bomb.

The air in the quiet study felt thick with unspoken farewells. A young woman stood by the window. A sigh escaped her lips as she gazed at the stars glittering against the dark night sky. She was supposed to be back home, back to her own time. Yet she wasn't, and it's all because of love. Granted, she would miss the conveniences of the modern world, such as the ease of ordering take-out on her phone and buying things online.

He adjusted the straps on the luxurious silk robe as he sat on the couch in his hotel suite in San Francisco. It was 11:37 PM. The acquisition meeting had finally concluded, leaving him both victorious and completely drained. He looked at his phone, his frown deepening as the time zones performed their cruel magic. The time on the East Coast was 3:37 PM.

The aromas of the modern-day streets assaulted the King's senses. The neon signs were brighter than any moon festival. The noise—a cacophony of horns, synthesized music, and incomprehensible shouting—made his ears ache. He pulled his light blue silk robe tighter, feeling like a ghost among the brightly dressed people. Despite that, he marched on, with the name of his beloved as the only compass in this bizarre, electric future.

In dramas, things tend to get worse before they get better. The palace revolt is reaching its climax as Grand Prince Jesan and his followers wreak havoc, believing they are acting for the greater good. Yi Heon and his men are still fending off the rebels in the Salgoji forest. I agreed with Gong-gil when he told Ji-yeong, after she was nearly captured by the rebel soldiers, that the best thing to do was to hide.

A young woman walked past her former high school on a cold autumn morning as she made her way to work. Her mind drifted to her final year as a senior. She had signed up for her high school choir for two reasons: the guaranteed easy A and the simple, misguided desire to sit near her secret crush. Both assumptions were horribly, tragically wrong.

When one celebrates a milestone birthday, it's supposed to be a day of celebration and happiness. Yet there will always be a dark cloud looming in the background, ready to rain on the parade. Harsh truths will come to light, and dangers will emerge. The timeless battle between good and evil has begun! In somewhat lighter news, it seems Ji-yeong is reluctant to accept Yi Heon's heartfelt proposal and remain in the Joseon era, becoming Yi Heon's companion.

The long, mahogany table in the lawyer's office was the last neutral territory they would ever share. Lynne signed her name with the same decisive pen stroke she used on official documents, the ink bleeding slightly into the thick, official paper. She didn't look at Frederick. "I still think we could have leveraged this," Frederick murmured, sliding the papers toward his soon-to-be ex-wife's lawyer.

Waking up lonely, Every single morning. Wondering if one should, Continue to stay that way. Heading down the wrong path, On the Road of Dreams. People say love is not in the cards, Yet one hopes to prove them wrong. For it won't be long, Till the right one comes.

Losing all your hope, Burned to nothing but blackened ashes. Sometimes things can get difficult, Or even downright cynical. There's no right advice to give, To help make this right. Gathering whatever's left, Of the empathy in your heart. Let us sit down together, To learn it the hard way.

The Blackfen Stable hadn't held a living soul, human or horse, for centuries. Locals only spoke its name in hushed tones, warning of Arionne, the phantom mare. Legend claimed she was a magnificent black charger, betrayed by her rider and swallowed by the marsh mud on a cold, harvest night. Now, she was less a ghost and more a sorrow that had taken the shape of equine grief: a shifting silhouette of midnight mist with two glowing orbs of ice for eyes.