Vignette (7)

the ground is still hot to the touch, ivy burnt off the exterior walls and red bricking now scorch-black and gray. this was her doing, her playing at being the mad wife shut up in the attic without ever thinking about how to pull it off.

curtains have been torn from the window-rail, flung out the window – now, they are crumpled in a heap, indistinguishable from all the other rags that have remained in the manor. everywhere, windows are open, a desperate attempt at airing out the rooms with the fresh rain smell that lingers on the horizon.

and in the southern-most window, the room is closed up. only the curtain is swept to one side, allowing anyone who cares to look, a view inside. there’s five candles lit, illuminating her.

what she’s doing is anyone’s guess.

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