Like Heathcliff, he returns. In black, like a hero, or a villain. Boyish blonde locks fall from a radiant countenance. His eyes are clear blue, his skin pale as snow. From his broadened shoulders falls a black cloak of a fine weight. His person is not inconsequential, his gaze is unreadable. There is determination in his features, perhaps even vengeance.
He strides through the garden. Perhaps never before was there such a large footprint on the summerhouse's snow-covered steps. Frost encircles the fine details of the black fence. A rose lies near his booted foot, impossibly pink and lovely in the airless chill, frozen as though under glass.
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