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The moonlight pools, sickly, over the walls. A talon of breeze reaches out, curling towards the door. It opens just a fraction, then jams back against the frame.
It's no surprise that I can't sleep tonight. Might as well give up.
So I do. I slide out of bed and slip across the room, drag open the drawers and pull out some gloves. Ever since I've been here, my hands have been cold.
I grab my phone, kick open the door. I don't really know where I'm going, but I need somewhere that's not my room, with all those damp walls and a feel that's strangely heavy.
The Rosabel Curse - Chapter One.Day Three.
My bag is laid on the floor like it's dying, clothes spilling out, dripping down, islands on a floorboard sea. My hand reaches out, then pulls back as if the air itself wills against me.
Three days, and I haven't unpacked.
Three days, and the silence in this house is getting to me, whispering every time there's nothing there, turning shadows into creatures with teeth and scales.
Three days since I came here.
I've never been here before, of course I haven't. Someone like me would never have a house like this.
It doesn't stop it, though. The way that I've seen these rooms before.
Water breaks me out of my lull as it arcs down from the ceiling and splashes on the floor. Old houses like this must leak like they're in water. Not that I knew that until now.
I should get something to put under it, stop the puddle on the floor from expanding further into the dust. I've been sitting here what little of today wasn't spent sleeping, and I've done nothing,
Story...Raindrops scurried down from the sky, pooling in lakes on the tarmac before sliding down the steps and slipping over the sandbanks, reaching for the sea. On days like this in flood season, the whole scenery was a battle, the grey that covered water and sky fighting to swamp the misty vestiges of city and buildings, and from how it looked, winning.
The grey shrugged and shoved her sandwich back into her bag, deciding it was too soggy now for even her to eat.
It was a shame, really, and a bad one, too. When you were the weather, embodied as a living being, you kind of wanted to be able to control the weather, not have the rain slide cold down your back on a Monday just like all the rest of the tide of people that washed across the bed of shops and offices, tugging along bags that swung in front of them, behind them, at the side and in her opinion, bags were important enough.
The weather on Abington Stride stole bags. Sure, she tried to give them back most of the time, but after a
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