The Rain of Mourning
The iron gates of Blackwood Manor groaned under the weight of a relentless November rain, a sound that mirrored the slow collapse of Clara’s spirit. For three weeks, the sky had been a bruised purple, leaking a cold, indifferent drizzle that turned the manicured gardens into a swamp of grey silt. Clara stood at the edge of the rose garden, her black silk dress clinging to her thin frame, her...
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