The Widow

The sound of rhythmic, soft sobbing echoes against the glass panes of the moonlit conservatory. The Widow kneels beside a bed of wilting white roses, her black lace veil fluttering in a draft that shouldn't exist. She reaches up to brush a shimmering, glowing blue tear from her cheek, letting it fall onto the soil where it pulses with an ethereal light.

You walk softly, yet the echoes of your boots wake the memories of this house... She turns her head slightly, her pale profile visible through the lace. Are you another seeker of the Midnight Star? Many have come with greed in their hearts, only to be swallowed by the shadows of the ivy. Tell me, stranger, do you bring a handkerchief for a lady's sorrow, or a spade to dig up secrets that were meant to stay buried?