“No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.” -Hal Borland
Melancholy, the girl leans upon the weathered headstone, malignant wind piercing her harrowed side. Consumed by a caliginous sky, she laments – Cimmerian atmosphere afflicting her already ravaged soul. Inundated face engulfed in rain and tears, the girl whispers: “I love you mummy…”
Ophelia Andrews: that was her name. Mother. She was such an alluring and radiant woman; a smile was always plastered upon her sweet face. Then they came and took her away… They left me on my own, in a pit of demise. They will pay.
Struggling under the weight of her affliction, the girl reaches into her pouch, heart inhumed by the woeful bleakness of the night. Sorrowfully, she grips the hemlock, sodden in a plethora of precipitation and despair. Finishing the final bindings of the bouquet, she places the flowers against the eroded plaque.
“One bouquet for mother, and one bouquet for me… ”
This will show the men.
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