The girl on the bed was sweating with a fever. Her brown curls were brushed to the side of her red face, and she looked so very at peace as she half-slept.
The man sitting nearby looked at her longingly. He knew he loved her as if love were a fever itself, and he hated himself for it. She was young, he was old. He shouldn't be messing with a girl who barely knows that part of the world yet. But he couldn't rid himself of the feeling.
He had a thought. I never want to lose her, in love or because she's my student. He brushed her hair lovingly, so glad she was too sick to notice. In another thought, he carefully plucked a delicate little curl of hers and kissed it lightly. He whispered, and a little locket appeared. He opened it and put the curl in the little hook.
I'll always be able to find her, in my dreams and in life.
But will I find her in my heart?