In the vast expanse of North Silesia, nature orchestrated its silent symphony, a melody that unfolded with the delicate grace of a nocturne. Each morning, the earth awakened, exhaling its rhythmic cadence—the dew-laden grasses bending under the steps of those who ventured into its serene embrace. The wind, a maestro of timeless sonatas, wove its exhales into the very fabric of the air, conducting a harmonious ballet.

In the midst of this poetic tapestry, a name, delicate as a fleeting whisper, pierced the tranquil aura that enveloped the region—'Willow.' Two syllables, uttered with a tenderness that resonated profoundly within the soul of a solitary figure, a phantom lingering in the shadows—a silent observer amidst nature's breathtaking canvas.

For this solitary soul, the mere utterance of her name was more than a sound; it was a catalyst that brought his world to an abrupt standstill, a moment suspended in the ethereal fabric of existence. The rhythmic pulsation of his heart wove those syllables seamlessly into a whispered mantra: Willow.

Her essence became interwoven with the very threads of his consciousness, an ineffable presence etched into the fibers of his soul. In the sanctuary of his dreams, her visage loomed vivid and arresting—her hair, a dance of windswept strands tenderly held back by delicate fingers. The subtle brush of her hand tucking those strands behind her ears echoed in his mind with startling clarity.

Each morning, as she strolled toward the market, his silent vigil bore witness to her presence. The rhythmic cadence of her footsteps, seemingly leisurely yet imbued with unseen urgency, painted a portrait of purposeful strides. She traversed her path with a graceful gait, acknowledging passersby with a courteous smile that veiled an enigmatic unease, fleeting but palpable to the discerning eye.

His silent observance noted her habitual touch upon her left elbow in conversation, cherishing sporadic interludes of laughter echoing like distant chimes. Yet, in the solitude of his musings, those sounds, though sweet to the ear, rang hollow, bearing faint echoes of unspoken sorrow.

What rendered this observation even more poignant was the fact that they had never exchanged a single word. She remained blissfully unaware of his existence, her routine passing him by, while he, nestled under the shade of ancient trees near the tranquil lake, remained a silent sentinel—a clandestine admirer paying silent homage to the unspoken beauty gracing his solitary world.

This figure was born into a destiny cloaked in darkness. His father's once eager gaze fell upon him with a vacant stare, pronouncing the name 'Achlys' in a tone as flat as the desolation it carried.

Achlys—a syllabic symphony murmured in monotony, etching an anthem of isolation. Only the tender invocation of his name by his mother offered respite, her whispers a sanctuary amidst the cavernous void echoing through his being.

In the canvas of memory stood the winter of his tenth year, cradled in his mother's embrace by the hearth's crackling fire. Her touch, gentle as the first snowflake's descent, lingered as a fleeting melody—a whisper lost in the corridors of his mind. Gazing out the window, a yearning tugged at his soul as he asked, "Mother, can we chase the snowfall?" Her laughter, soft as a zephyr, graced the air, "Not now, Achlys, dinner awaits." Yet his insistence lingered, "What if the snow ceases?" Her reply, a murmured promise, drew him closer, "Winter only surrenders when we've sauntered together beneath the snowfall." But that stroll amidst the snow remained an unclaimed dream, lost in the eternal wintry landscape.

Time unfolded its chapters, standing by his ailing mother, her pallor reminiscent of an ethereal specter amidst vibrant eyes. Her touch, both chilling and consoling, brushed across his palms. Her tender kiss upon his brow lingered as a cherished keepsake, along with the distant echo of her laughter—a melody fading into the depths of memory.

It seemed Achlys was fated to reside in perpetual darkness and eternal winter, his very essence ensnared in the clasp of an unyielding season. Yet, amid this unending night, he found an enigmatic solace in Willow. The mere presence of Willow orchestrated a curious metamorphosis—the darkness ebbing away, the frost yielding to her warmth, and whispers of spring whispering through his desolate realm. Puzzling it was, this inexplicable allure, this gravitational pull toward someone unknown.
Just as a moth is drawn to the elusive flame, Achlys found himself inexorably drawn to Willow, to her luminescence, even if it meant eternally dwelling in the realm of shadows.
In the very being of existence, Willow is the radiant light, while Achlys is the enduring shadow—destined to linger in the obscurity of perpetual distance, like winter waiting for the elusive embrace of spring, forever yearning yet fated to remain apart.

Perhaps, some stars are destined to only shine in the obscurity of the night.