Jour of the Never Sunrise

Born mere minutes after her sister, and seconds after the sun set, Jour always belonged to the night.

“One for day, one for night, one for dreams, and one for true life.”

“Never sleep, may your fingertips always be pierced.”

Separated in two different towers, Jour’s faced west, bathing in starlight. Alone, Jour spent a hundred years. Never aging, never resting, growing thorned roses on her windowsill.

And then the years were over. Jour spent the last few hours of her imprisonment waiting for her first sunrise.

But when it rose, when she felt the warm glow on her cheeks and her fingers stopped bleeding, her flowers withered and turned to ash, while Jour collapsed and fell into a deep sleep.

She is still there, waiting for the world, or her curse, to come to an end, whichever comes first.