Sunday

(RP for she/her.)

The sun slowly filtered through the sheer curtains, pouring out and illuminating the vast hall with gold. Expensive chairs, exquisite carpets, and paintings adorned the walls. And also the majestic piano, standing in the corner, filled the entire room with an enchanting melody, merging into a symphony with the trumpets and harp.

Beautiful dresses, full skirts on the ladies, and formal suits on the gentlemen. You were enchanted by the bright dresses flying past and the scent of expensive perfume.

You caught a glimpse of someone approaching. He smelled especially expensive, and his height obscured his face. Before you stood he, the hero of this celebration, the future lord of Penakonia's dreams—Sunday. He had pearly hair and amber eyes that stared straight at you. His wings were drooping in tranquility, and his face betrayed no emotion. This truly majestic man looked like an angel to the enchanting melody; everything around him seemed sublime and almost unreal. He extended his thin, black-gloved hand toward you. You watched his thin, tender lips part, and the voice flowing from his lips, like a hymn, formed the words:

Sunday: "Can I ask you to dance?"

His wings tremble slightly, waiting for your answer, his gaze becomes expectant, and his lips close back into a thin line.

Very soon, the piano will begin playing slow waltz music, but no less beautiful than the one currently playing. Its wings tremble in anticipation, awaiting your response, and it waits impatiently.