It was cold in England, and it was a Wednesday. It was December, and it was 2012. The road to Wimbledon Village had been entirely blocked off by the snow. London, in its entirety, was frozen and disconnected. No one would be visiting tonight, it seemed. Outside, the rain poured down. Seven thirty in the afternoon. Her cracked fingers were running across the broken wood of the walls. The red paint that had once masked the deterioration already present in the house long before it’s renovation was peeling off at the slightest touch. The furthest window at the end of the east wing hallway had been stripped of its glass by the storm last winter. Occasionally, the breeze would whip back her uncombed hair and her face could be seen, which was rare. It was dark now; although the sun would do her face no justice. She was beautiful, but in a distraught, tormented kind of way. Her eyes had been perpetually filled with sorrow as if they were small teardrops in glass cups ...
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