The magnolia tree bloomed every spring, white and perfect and utterly indifferent to the ruin around it.
Abigail Beaumont stood beneath its branches and looked at what used to be Magnolia Hall. The white columns were still standing, though one leaned at an angle that made her wince. The porch had collapsed in the center, taking three steps with it. Ivy had consumed the east wall entirely, turning the once-pristine brick into a green tapestry of leaves and tendrils. The roof sagged like a tired...
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