His villain

s danced with restless anticipation, aware of the forthcoming events planned for the day. At first, a mere whisper escaped the air, a gentle murmur that heralded the appr

ed by a glassy clinking akin to the lifting of a crystal Champagne flute. As if an invisible hand brushed against the ground, a

ned with an assortment of fresh flowers, each blossom chosen with utmost care to honor a beloved soul—Francesca Milano. Celia's right hand tenderly cradled her five-month-old baby bump, a nurturing gesture of protection, while her left hand shel

o her mother, but this time, the parting was permanent. An overwhelming void engulfed her very being, rendering her acutely aware of the rain, which served as her sole companion in thi

ibly separated her from her parents, both physically and emotionally. Imprisoned within the clutches of her paternal relatives, she be

ralding the onset of a blur, a state in which she lost all sense of time and direction. She found herself caught in an unending cycle, battling the same demons repeatedly, only to succumb to their relentless

s tribulations, did God not deem me worthy of respite? Does the cosmos possess an all-seeing entity, yet refuse to extend a helping hand

ed hound, adhering to the expectations thrust upon me by al

raveyard, paying her respects to her father's resting place. An enigmatic figure awaited her

she know that she was about to lose someone dear to her once again, a loss that would reverberate through her very core, threatening to rob her of