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summer diary · 5th of july
seaside bibelot roll call: ♥
darling baubles curio cupboard!

periwinkles scampered over candy coloured rockpools and bobbled from one shallow tidelet to another: teeny picnic cloth unfurled upon the sandy strand beneath the sea’s swish-swash. starfish rested hotchpotch about beside shell bracelets and seaside bric-a-brac as blush where clementine hues bloomed across the sky. palms cradled homemade onigiri whilst holiday favourite gimbap came paired with the pop-pop fizz of melon mojito through a twirly straw! 𖣯 • 🍉
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The penthouse was permeated lavish upon glistening rummage, equaling the household of a benevolent whose was contemplate up to and honored by generality. The enthusiasm inclined to each representative of the family contrived the surroundings even lukewarm than prevailing. The entranceway of the grandiose penthouse were brimming amidst amusement. Splendor was annihilation correlated to the mirthfulness of quintessence side of us. Thus, La Siegern stretched toward for someone who willing to sojourn and absorb time among the family.

│ Mother's figure, for those born in 1991—1996.
│ Aunty & Uncle, for those born in 1997—1999.
│ Eldest Child, for those born in 2000—2003.
│ Middle Line, for those born in 2004—2006.
│ Youngest line, for those born in 2007—2010.

By sojourning our mailbox @SiegernsBot, we aim immediately development your desire to be side of us. However lamentably, each representative cannot have the twofold outward form, so behave to the directory we have establish: taken list. Hereabouts the dimensions, "Greetings, La Siegern. With all my courtesy and desire, here I am: your name as your muse would like to propound myself to be a partition of La Siegern Famille @. I would be sure-enough delighted if you would counter to my solicitation forthwith. Danke schön!" We are on tenterhooks for your whereabouts.
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‌‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(Germany, Est. 1970)
‌‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Prestigious Das Famille, La Siegern. ♛

Paris wore its last night around them like a soft golden dream, tender and fleeting, as though the city itself knew it was about to become a memory. Beneath that fading glow, Ian Rocheveil looked ethereal, and Keonho Morthen seemed intent on stealing every final second before dawn could take the magic away.

So he drew Ian from one corner of the night to another, as if asking her to keep playing with him just a little longer, walk a little farther, laugh a little more, stay with him inside the city of love, of Paris before it slipped from their hands. Between the shimmer of the river, the warmth of late-night lights, and the quiet tenderness of standing side by side, it felt as though Keonho was turning their last evening in Paris into something, one final night devoted entirely to making Ian smile.