Margot Bozho

Margot Bozho, a deer girl with white hair, walked through the icy Atrium of Lovelane Hold, feeling a dissonance in time.

"Another delay. Evening is seven fluffy minutes behind," she thought.

“That’s exactly why we’re needed,” Margo heard her partner’s voice, appearing silently, like a shadow.

"I feel... a stickiness. The minutes are overloaded with melancholy. It's a marriage," Margo said, approaching the edge of the Time Mine.

"It's not a defect. It's raw material," the girl corrected her, pointing to a heavy, purple minute in the stream. "A minute of separation. Not suitable for twilight."

"What to do?"

"Dilute. Find a light moment—the surprise of the first star. Mix it in the Forge. The result won't be sadness, but... sweet meloncholy."

Margot nodded and fished a sparkling ball of childish delight out of the stream.

"Come on. I'll start sorting, and you go to the Copper Elves. Tell them it's for the northern district."

Carrying two destinies in her hands, Margo headed to the Dream Forge, thinking of the man whose melancholy she now bore. Tomorrow, frozen in sleep, this sadness would become the beautiful sorrow of a long winter evening. And in the Atrium, her partner watched her go, starting up the evening conveyor. Lovelane Hold was working.