The clouds seemed lower than usual, their gray undersides heavy with unshed tears, mirroring the grief that settled over the estate like an unwelcome fog. A gentle breeze rustled the trees surrounding the grounds, but there was no relief in the wind—only a reminder of how silent everything had become since Marlowe's passing. The air held the weight of mourning, and the sky looked as though it mourned with them.
Marlowe's funeral was not grand, but it was deeply solemn. There was no fanfare, no elaborate displays, no excessive crowd of mourners. Only those who knew her deeply, those who had felt her presence and influence firsthand, stood under the mourning sky. Chairs had been arranged beneath the old oak tree in the garden, one of Marlowe's favorite places, where she would often sit with a warm drink and speak to anyone who needed a listening ear. It was fitting, then, that she would be laid to rest nearby, in a place that had once echoed with her laughter and wisdom.
