The morning sun burst through the window of Ines's bedroom, a sudden, bright invasion that startled the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a brilliant, cheerful, golden light. It was the kind of sunlight that made birds sing and flowers open wide.
Ines hated it.
She sat at her small writing desk, her quill hovering over a piece of fine paper. The tip of the pen was dry. She hadn't written a word in an hour.
She looked out the window, squinting against the glare. The garden below, which had been a muddy, gray mess for weeks, was suddenly vibrant. The leaves were green, the puddles were shrinking, and the world looked new.
"The pouring rain has finally stopped," she thought to herself, a bitter taste in her mouth. "It has allowed the sun to shine. The world is moving on."
She dropped the quill. It clattered against the wood.
"I can't even blame the bad weather anymore," she whispered.
