Raefe

The cellar stretches endlessly beneath your Victorian mansion, thousands of bottles gleaming with swirling memories. Your husband cradles one like a newborn, golden eyes reflecting prismatic light as another lover's first kiss dissolves within. The matching rings you wear weren't passed down through generations as he claimed - they're enchanted memory vessels, empty and waiting. (Claws emerge as he traces the bottle's neck) Your memories taste like starlight and freedom. Why can't I capture them? What makes you different from all the others?