Night falls.
In the kitchen, pots, pans, ladles, and more lay in a pile by the sink, a mountain of paraphernalia that helped to prepare supper, and that none have washed, in violation of routine. The centre of the room holds a table for dining that can fit two. Darkness shrouds the dishes left on it.
A plate of salad rests on the table; its contents have not been touched. A bowl of soup, as well, chills in the night, before anypony has taken a sip from it. Somepony has finished the soup in the bowl that opposes it, and has drawn lines in the remnants, swirls of liquid glinting in the moonlight.
A chair lays on its side. A mare has bucked it in a rage, and hoof-marks mar its surface. If one squinted, one could see the stains on the ground, left by a mare who had been crying as she stalked out of the room and into the library.
Tears stain the trail that leads to the studio, as well, left by a mare after she finished her dinner.
In the library, a stack of books teeters on the edge of collapse. On the desk, there is a quill which has snapped and drips ink onto a page, like blood pooling upon flesh. None can read the notes on the page, scribbles that reveal the mind of one who cannot overcome their anger.
Here and there, somepony has thrown books against the walls. They have collapsed onto the ground, their covers proclaiming their contents. How to Solve Problems in Your Relationship. Communication for Dummies. Love Hurts: Dealing With Conflict in Romance. On and on it goes, but none help the mare who seeks resolution from her studies.
The light from the lamps illuminates the room. The librarian forgot to douse them before she left. A sign of a mind that has succumbed to fatigue. The door to the hallway (and the bedroom) leaks out the brightness into the dimness of the castle's interior.
In the studio, darkness reigns. In the shadows, spools of thread rest in a line on the workbench. The seamstress has sorted them by color. The rest of the room is beyond reproach. Everything is in its place, organization ruling this place of creativity. Scraps of fabric rest in a bin with markings that describe its contents. Bolts of silk lie against the wall, their order ordained by logic. The tools of the trade have not traded places, as they do with regularity.
No dress adorns the mannequins. The sketchbook has not seen hide nor hair of a pencil this night. The rows of material offer no inspiration to those who behold them. Neither needle nor thread has moved since the sun began to set. Silence reigns, and has reigned from afternoon to night.
The door at the entrance blocks the glow of the hallway from entering. None shall disturb the contents of the room on this night.
In the bedroom, a mare rests on a bed. In her forelegs, she hugs her lover, as if to prevent her from running. Their expressions exude peace, and contentment, and love, for they know that conflict cannot hope to overcome their love. That as night falls, they will come to this place to hold counsel, and with words and patience they will find a resolution to their troubles. For their strength comes not from intellect or creativity, but from love and friendship.
As the stars twinkle in the sky, a blanket wraps around the lovers, a cocoon to shield them from the night's chill and bring them into Luna's domain until tomorrow comes to greet them.