The basis for this, as well as the characters, belong to Philip Pullman. I am not he & so they don't belong to me!
I hope you like it...
Midsummer's Day
Midsummer's Day, and she was nineteen. She sat on the bench and held her marten-daemon, and bitter tears spilled down her cheeks, over her lips to fall on Pantalaimon's fur. Midsummer's Day and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying with the effort to squeeze shut the wound in her heart, that bled not tears but, more bitter, longing. Midday, and Will's face, smiling then crying, danced on the inside of her eyelids - black against the red-gold haze of blood in the sunlight. Black for mourning and blood for pain.
"As long as I live," she whispered, just as she'd said it to him, just here, such an endless time ago. Just as she'd said it - just as she would say it, every Midsummer's Day, year on year, at midday. "As long as I live! Oh, Will..."
~~~Time passed.~~~
Midsummer's Day, and the Botanic Gardens were thronged with tourists. A few paused to glance curiously at the handsome young man - twenty-two? twenty-three? - sitting crying on the bench, but nobody spoke to him or sat by him. There were too many explanations for his plight, in none of which they wanted to be mixed up.
For which relief he was glad. Twelve strokes of midday were ringing from chapel and church - it was midday, of Midsummer's Day and his heart was full. That brief moment of the year for just he and Lyra. Sitting together again, with only a few molecules and worlds, worlds, worlds between them. Midsummer's Day.