The maiden's flower. Fresh and elegant just like its original owner. The books say that this species of flower has long been extinct. Just like that passage the maiden had read countless times in books: "The damsel in distress was saved by the white knight in shining armor." "And they exchanged flowers as blessings to one another." Though a maiden's heart is said to change with the seasons, just like a flower, This flower remained constant. For her heart had stopped in that moment long ago: The moment that she met the knight.

An old but delicate feathered ornament. After many years, it is now covered in layers of dust. For the maiden, time stopped still the day she met the knight. Nothing mattered to her anymore, not even love and youth. She sought him constantly, wandering far like a lost bird without a nest to cling to. "May my love reach the knight," she prayed. Meanwhile, the knight dedicated himself to the pursuit of chivalry. In a distant land where ancient empires crumbled, Would the knight see the scenery she dreamt of?

A delicate timepiece. It stood as a testament to the inevitable passage of time, indifferent to its owner's feeling. The maiden's time would one day come to an end. But her waiting would not. The short hand seemed to be constantly chasing after the long hand. Much like the incessant longing that filled the maiden's heart and mind. Years after the event, she still remembered the knight she met that day. The white knight that came to her. The white knight she had been waiting for ever since.

The maiden's most cherished teaware. It was once filled with elegant black tea. Indulging herself in pastries and tea, She cared not one bit about the mundane world. This was her privilege as a maiden. "This flower shall be my medal. That is all I need." The knight said to her on the day they met. "But, my heart is already—" Not finishing her confession was her privilege, but also the chains of courtliness the maiden had to bear.

Even when surrounded by flowers from her courters, The maiden never removed her hat to get a better look at them. Their names and faces were not worth remembering. For years, at the end of every day, the maiden would brush off the dust on her hat. But the passage of time showed in her face, too — and unlike the dust, it could never be brushed off. As time passed, fewer and fewer courters visited her with flowers. What did it matter? For her, time had already stopped long ago on that fateful day.