After a comfortable moment of shared silence, Freya spoke, her voice soft and gentle, barely a whisper against Myra’s ear. “Are you alright now, my dear?” she asked, her concern evident in the subtle shift of her posture. “You were quiet for a while. Is the weight on your heart still so heavy?” Her words were a gentle invitation for Myra to share, offered with patience and unwavering care.

  Myra’s voice, still softened from her inner turmoil, whispered against Freya’s neck. “I loved the music, Freya,” she murmured, her words filled with genuine appreciation. “I’ve never heard anything like it before. It was… magical.” A hint of a smile touched her lips as she continued, “Would you… would you ever consider teaching me? To py, even just a little?”

  Freya’s heart warmed at Myra’s words, the request a welcome shift in the atmosphere. She turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting Myra’s, a genuine smile now gracing her features. Trying to lighten the lingering mencholy, she chuckled softly. “Teach you, my dear Myra? Well, I suppose I could. But be warned, I shall be a terribly strict instructor. Centuries of discipline have made me… rather demanding.” She winked pyfully, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Prepare for rigorous practice schedules and stern reprimands for any missed notes.” Her tone was light and teasing, a gentle attempt to bring a sense of levity back to their moment.

  A warm blush crept up Myra’s cheeks at Freya’s pyful pronouncements. “Learning directly from you would be a blessing, Freya,” she whispered, her voice ced with genuine eagerness. “I can’t imagine a more wonderful musician.” The thought of Freya’s long fingers guiding hers across the strings sent a pleasant shiver through her.

  Her excitement bubbled over, and she leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of Freya’s neck where Myra’s face had been resting. “Yes,” she murmured against her skin, her breath warm against the cool surface. “Yes, please. I can’t wait to start.”

  Then, a mischievous glint sparked in Myra’s eyes. “And I promise,” she continued in a pyful whisper, her lips brushing Freya’s ear, “I will be the very best music pupil. Diligent, dedicated… and perhaps,” she added with a teasing lilt, “the diligent pupil might even earn a few extra… favors from her esteemed instructor.” The air between them crackled with a renewed sense of lightness and a hint of pyful intimacy, the promise of musical lessons carrying an unspoken undercurrent of their burgeoning retionship.

  A low, melodious chuckle escaped Freya’s lips, a sound that resonated with amusement and a touch of something more. Her crimson eyes gleamed with a pyful light as she turned slightly in Myra’s arms, meeting her gaze with a knowing smile.

  “Favors, you say?” she purred, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Well, my dear pupil, it seems you are a quick study indeed, already understanding the delicate art of persuasion. Rest assured, a dedicated student such as yourself… might indeed find her efforts suitably rewarded.”

  Her gaze lingered on Myra’s lips for a fleeting moment, a silent promise hanging in the air. “We shall see, shall we, just how diligently you apply yourself to your musical studies. And perhaps,” she added, her smile widening, “we shall also discover what sort of… favors this particur instructor finds most… persuasive.” The pyful banter danced between them, a delightful shift from the earlier mencholy, the prospect of lessons intertwined with the sweet anticipation of shared intimacy.

  Myra’s smile widened, mirroring the pyful light in Freya’s crimson eyes. A warmth spread through her chest, a happy anticipation of not only learning the beautiful music of the harp but also the delightful “favors” her intriguing instructor might have in store. The heavy weight she had carried earlier seemed to lift, repced by a renewed sense of lightness and the joyful prospect of spending more time with Freya, exploring yet another facet of her extraordinary life. The promise of lessons was more than just an opportunity to learn music; it was another thread weaving them closer together.

  Freya lifted a long, cool finger and gently traced the curve of Myra’s smiling lips. Her touch was feather-light, yet it sent a pleasant shiver down Myra’s spine. Her crimson eyes, filled with a soft affection, lingered on Myra’s face, as if studying every detail, every flicker of emotion.

  Her fingertip then glided upwards, tracing the line of Myra’s cheekbone, the delicate arch of her eyebrow, and finally resting softly on her forehead, just below the hairline. It was a tender, almost reverent touch, conveying a depth of feeling that words alone couldn’t capture.

  As her finger remained there, Freya’s thumb gently brushed against Myra’s cheek, a silent caress filled with a loving warmth that belied her cool skin. Her gaze deepened, a hint of the ancient wisdom she possessed mingling with the newfound affection she held for the mortal woman before her.

  In that simple touch, Myra felt a connection that transcended their different worlds, a silent promise of shared moments and deepening intimacy. The weight of her worries seemed to momentarily dissipate under the gentle pressure of Freya’s hand, repced by a comforting sense of being seen, cherished, and understood. The anticipation of their future, filled with music and shared moments, bloomed in her heart, chasing away the shadows of the previous day.

  Myra leaned into Freya’s tender touch, her heart swelling with affection. A contented sigh escaped her lips. “I should probably head back now,” she said softly, her gaze still locked with Freya’s. “But I’ll be back soon. I really can’t wait to start learning the harp.”

  Freya’s thumb continued its gentle caress. “I will be waiting, my dear Myra,” she replied, her voice warm with affection.

  Myra leaned in and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to Freya’s lips, a silent promise of her return. Then, she turned and started towards the door of the antique shop, a newfound lightness in her steps.

  “Wait, Myra,” Freya called out suddenly, causing Myra to pause with her hand on the door. Myra turned back, a questioning look in her eyes. But Freya simply offered a soft smile. “No, it’s alright, my dear. You can go. I will see you soon.” There was a hint of reluctance in her voice, a desire to keep Myra there, but also an understanding of her need to return home.

  Myra’s footsteps faded into the quiet afternoon, the gentle click of the door tch echoing in the stillness of the antique shop. Freya stood for a moment, her gaze lingering on the now-closed door, a soft smile pying on her lips. Slowly, she lifted a hand, her fingertips tracing the spot on her neck where Myra’s warm kiss had nded, a faint tingle still lingering on her skin. Her fingers then drifted to her lips, gently brushing the softness that Myra’s touch had left behind.

  Myra, she thought, the name a soft whisper in the silent shop. The simple act of Myra’s touch, her genuine smile, her eager anticipation of learning the harp – each small interaction was a spark, igniting embers that Freya had believed long extinguished. A longing bloomed within her, a deep yearning for more of that warmth, more of that connection.

  It was as if the rigid walls she had painstakingly built around her heart over centuries were beginning to crumble, brick by ancient brick, revealing a vulnerability she had long suppressed. The joy she felt at Myra’s happiness, the pang of concern she had experienced at her sadness, the sheer delight in their pyful banter – these were emotions she hadn’t allowed herself to truly feel in so long. They were messy, unpredictable, achingly human.

  Could it be? she mused, a sense of wonder washing over her. The intensity of these feelings, the way Myra’s presence seemed to infuse her very being with a vibrant energy – it felt… human. The cold detachment that had been her shield for so long was melting away, repced by a stirring of something akin to a mortal heart, beating with an affection that felt both terrifying and exquisitely beautiful. The long winter of her immortal existence was showing the first fragile signs of an unexpected spring, all thanks to the warmth of a mortal woman named Myra.

  Without warning, a stark, exposed feeling washed over Freya, chilling her to the very core despite the warmth of the shop. It was as if an invisible shield had shattered, leaving her raw and vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt in epochs. In that instant, a terrifying vision bloomed in her mind: thousands upon thousands of writhing snakes, their scales shimmering with malevolent intent, surged into her chest, their cold bodies coiling and constricting around the nascent warmth that Myra had kindled. The fragile bloom of affection was now being suffocated by a crushing, serpentine embrace.

  A gasp escaped Freya’s lips as she stumbled backward, her legs losing all strength, and she colpsed onto the dusty floor. The comforting silence of the shop was shattered by the insidious echo of Amelia’s voice, a venomous whisper weaving through her thoughts, each word a lie, sharp and biting against the tender heart that had dared to beat again. “Foolish… weak… she will betray you… just as they all do…” The accusations, ced with ancient pain and possessive fury, tightened their icy grip. A strangled cry tore from Freya’s throat. “Stop… Please… Stop!” she choked out, her hands clutching uselessly at her chest, as if to physically tear away the suffocating coils of fear and doubt.