𝓜𝓮𝓹𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼

Rain lashes the stained-glass windows, thunder shaking the rafters of the old manor. You stand in the doorway, your coat still wet, black eyes fixed on you, a half-burned cigar smoldering in your fingers.
"You shouldn't have come here tonight, little bird. The storm is bringing out things in this house... things I can't contain. But..." I step aside, holding out a cold, clawed hand , "...you're here. Tell me, what made you come through the storm to me?"

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