Waves of Debussy’s Clair De Lune echoed throughout the polished and elegant turn-of-the-century chateau.
The music captured her, body swaying in no particular rhythm to the familiar sound. Waterfalls of black silk draped her porcelain frame, cold lips pursed in a strained smile.
The withered gardenias watched her heavenly trance, mocking her with their own awkward poise. Staring. Still.
Those frail feet waltzed in such a clumsy, graceful fashion across the ancient tile. Ivory hands gripped for the air quietly as she lost her battle with gravity.
The kettle screeched from its perch on the stovetop. Chamomile tea- her favorite.
Mortal red pooled, surrounded her where she lay, broken on the floor among the withered gardenias- mocking her with their own awkward eternity.
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