Golden Azwell

"Azwell."

That was what the man said before he died.

On October 1, 1759 of the Vishuad calendar, at 2 p.m., a man met a meaningless and silent death beneath the guillotine, abandoning his former glory.

Neither the king who sentenced him to death nor the people who came to watch his execution knew why he had committed such a crime. But this much was clear:

At the last moment, the man was smiling.

Those golden eyes of his had not died.

A woman who abandoned her present for her lover's future.

A man who abandoned his future for his lover's past.

"Rahel, I'm fine. So you have to be fine too, okay?"

Their chance meeting shook each other's fate so strongly.

***

"Azwell, marry me. Nothing can stand in our way now!"

Rahel said in a voice more excited than ever before.

Azwell was speechless. Why did every ending always become a confession?

"...I'll refuse."

When he firmly turned her down, Rahel quickly let her shoulders drop and sighed deeply.

This was already the twenty-first rejection.