As pale as the winter snow, her face reflects the beauty of beauty itself. Whilst every step she takes is as graceful as a blossoming swan.
But underneath this demeanour, her life is tormented by images of her mother. So much that she cannot stand the very reflection of herself. As it bares them lips; red as wine; red as the pool of blood her mother lay in.
Even the look of her hair brings the most questionable glances. Black as night; holding many shades, as many as the secrets she holds.
And her favourite fruit; apples.
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