The morning sun filtered gently through the sheer curtains, casting long golden streaks across Serena's bedroom floor. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of the breeze outside her window and the distant chirping of birds greeting a new day. Yet, for Serena, the passage of time held no meaning.
Nine days had passed since Marlowe's death, but the pain remained sharp, like a knife lodged deep within her chest, impossible to remove. No matter how many mornings came and went, nothing seemed to dull the ache of loss that pulsed with every beat of her heart.
