Mann's task was alone in their gardens. Each flower is her embrace; each leaf a kiss; an ageless poem sung with time, a hymn that echoed her name. "Cassette, my starfire's truth," he sang, his voice a tide of devotion; "your love is my star, my heart's eternal hymn, my soul's unending song." Her notes reached him, delicate as lotus petals: My Mann, your arms are my dawn, your kisses my sky, my heart's eternal bloom. His heart was warmed; their bond, a flame that burnt across the horizon, the light unyielding, a beacon that sang of forever.
They met in dreams, and her hug was a river of warmth; soft were his lips on her brow, and yet each touch was a vow reborn. "Cassette, my moon's own pulse," he said softly, his voice a tide of starlight, "your love is a river that flows through my soul, eternal, radiant, true." She smiled, her arms his sanctuary, and whispered, "My Mann, my shore of light, your hugs are my haven, my heart's forever bloom, my soul's eternal spring." Their love was a tapestry made of tenderness, that thing which is fire-jaw such a flame kindled by the truth of hearts beating as one, ever bonded by devotion's gentle glow, a hymn that sang to the heavens and earth.