She was thin, and fair as snow. Her hands were finely made, her eyes sparkled a summer blue, and her curly hair was as golden as the corn-silk tassels. That, and her mischievous smile as she beckoned him with a dainty hand, reminded him of a sprite. And for all he knew, she could have been; born of faery blood, and fed on stars' dust and magic and all things fair and fae. Maybe she did take part in moonlit reels in deep forest glens, filling all the silver corners of the world with her ghostly laughter. Maybe she did. He would certainly never know. Because the clock struck twelve, and she ran, leaving a small glass slipper behind.
He picked up the glass slipper, and slipped it into his pocket, but he didn't chase her. He knew she could never stay, because she was made of stardust and silver and ghostly laughter. She was a fairy tale, and her story would be told many, many times, even by him. He held her in his arms for one night, and then she was gone, nothing but a legend, a glass slipper he kept in his pocket, and he needed someone who would stay after midnight, someone he could hold in his arms his entire life. A small, womanly plump girl with dark hair and dark eyes who smiled a timid smile and was made of homemade bread and milk and hard work. Someone, whose hands were rough and calloused, yet had the gentlest touch. She was the one who bore his children, who made his breakfast, lunch and dinner, who made him laugh and cry, who laughed and cried with him, she held his hand as he went to sleep that one last time, and followed him soon after. That was why he picked up the glass slipper, but didn't chase her.