We called her Singe because of her coal-dark hair and cinder-bright eyes, but her skin was pale like the first light of a misty dawn. The day I last saw her, her dress matched the clear sky above us; her cloak, the dewy grass below. She laughed with me that day, and graced my hand with hers. I remember clearly how her pearly nails shone in the sunlight. She let me play with her sooty locks, and I wove flowers into it, bright flowers that matched the colour of a moonlit lake. And after that day I saw her no more.