The Morning After — Blackwood Mansion Grounds

The sun tried but failed to cut through the clouds that morning, its beam yellow and subdued, as though cautioned not to burn too bright on this planet. Fog curled over the lawn in a pall, low-floating and enigmatic, over statues and fountains set out singly along the paths of the garden like forsaken memories.

Leya lay among the roses, elbows resting in the soil.

Not digging.

Just. Being.

Cold earth concentrated her.

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