The me three hundred years ago was the real one, and the me now is just a deviation of history. Three hundred years from now, I can't find any trace of you, so I can only carve a permanent monument to you with my heart.
This is a mutually supportive relationship in a bloody storm, a stoic woman's love like a moth flying into a flame.
(The ending is both happy and sad. It is purely fictitious. Any similarities are purely coincidental. I will work hard to update and will not give up. Feedback is welcome.)