The witch was silent as she walked. As one of the few nomads, she had learned the art of silent passage long ago. With cat like tred she moved by night and slept by day, as she had done for a hundred years or more. Each time she had come near the Grove of Bleeding Hearts, she had felt a tugging at her conciousness, and the two hundred and fifth time through, she slept beneath the tree that had been trying to speak to her. A young vampire appeared and gazed sadly at her.
"You're not the right one." A single tear fell from each of her eyes and she began fade into the grey mist around us.
"Who are you?" The witch heard herself ask.
The vampire paused, "I'm waiting for her. Go away, you waste my time."
Deep in her soul, the witch felt a longing powerful enough to break her heart, and then she was crying and begging the vampiress to stay. It was tearing her up inside, she felt as if she were close to death and then she was awake. She stayed under the tree for many nights, crying for something she knew was lost, but could not remember what. The vampiress did not reappear, and the which eventually moved on. She would pass this place another three hundred times before she died. Always she felt the longing, and the sorrow, of the spirit of the tree, until the day she no longer woke.