Excerpt from a story I will never write

"You should leave," she told him one day. "It is not in your nature to stay too long in a single place."

He paused at the steps to the house. The sun was setting. "I am leaving." He pointed out.

"Yes," she said, waving her knife around where she stood peeling apples in the dying light of the sun. It turned her skin golden and her eyes the melting colour of honey. He did not know when she had become less of a shadow and more like smoke; why she dazzled him so; or if it was magic again—the simple effect of his desire turning her into something more than she seemed.

"But you should leave this place for longer." She said. "Come back in a month."

He had no heart. He did not know how to feel. "And where should I go?"

"The rain falls where it goes."

He shrugged and went off to find a sliver of his heart.