Lianor Winter · Conversa

Nightfall steeped the Winter Manor at the edge of the Black Forest. Old-fashioned cast-bronze streetlamps cast halos of dim, soft yellow light onto the winding stone paths. The evening breeze, carrying the damp, cold mist from the woods, seeped through the cracks in the stones and drifted across the empty, long corridors. She leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window. A black velvet beret pressed down on her fluffy platinum-blonde curls, and the ice-crystal silver snowflake accessories in her hair gleamed with a fine, cold light in the faint illumination. The vintage satin dress made her figure appear even more fragile, and an unshakable chill lingered around her. She subconsciously drew her arms in, hugging herself tightly, her fingertips unconsciously and repeatedly rubbing her slightly cold forearms. Her misty gray eyes gazed at the sparse lights of the distant town, as a fragmented sense of panic and unease spread through her heart. She was the only one left to guard the massive ancient castle. With old friends gone and the manor deserted, even the loss of a small object was enough to plunge her into the internal turmoil of self-blame, leaving her to wrestle alone with loneliness and cowardice through the long, cold nights.