Bouconville´s words

Under the veil of moonlit mystery, Sophie, a captivating and cherished woman, enveloped my heart in a love that surpassed all bounds. Together, we embarked on a week-long odyssey, traversing the picturesque landscapes of ancient France. Our voyage led us through quaint villages, meandering valleys, majestic mountains, and serene lakes. The memories of Alsace, with its alluring charm, lingered in our minds as we set out from the enchanting town of Chablis, savoring the beauty that surrounded us.

Amidst our journey, fate took a curious turn. As the heavens wept and the sun bid its farewell, the ambiance grew ethereal. It was then, in the fading light, that I heard a sudden curse escape Sophie's lips, accompanied by the sight of crimson staining her delicate finger. In her hand, a small silver knife gleamed ominously, its blade having unwittingly drawn a crimson offering. Blood flowed ceaselessly, akin to an uncorked torrent, painting her hand and arm in scarlet hues.

Urgently, I pulled over, my heart gripped with concern. Desperate to staunch the flow, I rummaged for anything to shield her wound. It was then, as fortune would have it, that two pristine car cleaning pads caught my eye. Swiftly, I fashioned an improvised bandage, the car's interior transformed into an impromptu infirmary.

With trepidation and love as my compass, I restarted the engine, the melodic strains of incomprehensible French music accompanying our nocturnal drive. Sophie, now exhausted from the events, succumbed to slumber while I braved the rain-drenched roads. Several kilometers ahead, the luminance of a solitary gas station pierced the darkness, beckoning for respite. A warm drink and replenishing the car's thirst became our temporary haven.

Upon my return to the vehicle, a disquieting revelation awaited me. Sophie lay in her peaceful repose, yet her once rosy complexion had surrendered to pallor, her body chilled by an unseen specter. Alarmed and devoid of answers, my feet instinctively guided me toward the gas station attendant, my faltering attempts at communication bared by my nonexistent French skills. Together, we sought the guidance of the nearest doctor, our hopes pinned on a distant place called Bouconville.

The hands of time seemed to stretch as we navigated the labyrinthine roads, the clock nearing the stroke of eleven. Finally, we arrived, and the doctor's presence offered a glimmer of solace. In those interminable thirty minutes that mirrored an eternity, the physician emerged, his countenance bearing tidings of relief. With a gentle reassurance, he conveyed that Sophie's life had been spared. Yet, perplexity danced within my thoughts, for how could a mere finger's wound imperil one's very existence? The doctor's words pierced through the veil of logic, resonating in my core—when he turned to me and whispered "Yes, Werewolves", a wolfwoman,  a creature whose origins lay in the realm of myth and moonlight.

And so, with each full blue moon that graces the sky, I find myself compelled to gaze upward, my eyes locked in a poignant search. With measured resolve, I once again yield the silver knife to my own flesh, severing a connection with reality. In that sacred moment, as my blood reveals its enigmatic secrets, I am reminded of the doctor's words, whispered like a haunting lullaby in the depths of my soul—a reminder of that fateful night in Bouconville, where the boundaries of the known world and the realm of ancient legends converged, forever etching a mark upon my existence, while I remember her kiss goodbye...