The Wistful Show
The rain had not ceased for three days, turning the manicured lawns of the Whitmore Estate into a swamp of sucking mud and decaying leaves, a landscape that seemed to mirror the slow, viscous erosion of Elara’s spirit. She stood at the window of the guest wing, her hand resting against the cold glass, watching the water cascade down the ancient oak trees that lined the driveway. The oaks were...
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