Beware the one who will betray you; for you have given them your heart.
Love is often a beast of convenience: two strangers meeting and connecting on some chemical and psychological level; sharing laughs and tears, and maybe bodily fluids.
But love can be real, when it wants to be. There are honest moments in the days we spend with our lover, there are days of sunshine and laugher, and nights of pleasure.
When it wants to be real. Love has its own designs, as poor Bailey finds out: Tasked by a dead man to perform a murderous act, he finds himself in love with a stranger. He was a simple-minded farmer, tending his turnips and his pumpkins, when the outside world burst in, sending everything he held dear to the far winds.
And so the poor chap is alone and scared when Abigail bares her pretty face. Although her family lies dead—somewhere on the path behind her—Bailey trips headfirst into the wants of his own heart, takes her hand, and carries her along a new road.
For Bailey, Love is more than a chemical reaction: It is a living thing, a living road… a pale road. A pale, murky, dangerous road.
For Death waits at the end.