The sun dipped low, casting long, golden shadows across the garden. The air had begun to turn sharp with the chill of approaching evening, and Lorraine wrapped a silk shawl tightly around her shoulders. The delicate fabric fluttered in the soft breeze, carrying the faint scent of roses mingled with the crispness of autumn air.
Aralyn joined her, stepping beside her in quiet solidarity, and Lorraine offered the second shawl without a word. The garden, once vibrant and lush in daylight, now seemed subdued, its colors dimming to muted tones, the flowers drooping slightly as if weighed down by the approaching night.
Ahead, the Ashwood tree stood solemn and bare, its gnarled branches etched against the amber sky. Lorraine's eyes lingered there, and a burst of happiness filled her heart as she remembered the small moment of intimacy she had stolen from Leroy that other day while he had fallen asleep sleeping under that tree.
