The Distant Whispers
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, silver mist that clung to the velvet curtains of the manor and turned the garden into a place of suspended breath. I stood by the window, my hand resting on the cold glass, watching the droplets trace their slow, deliberate paths down the pane, each one a tiny, perfect tear that refused to let go of the world above. It was a strange thing to...
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