Evening.
Theodore Mansion.
Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.
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As the golden hues of dusk painted the sky above, Lydia sat upon the pavement outside her mansion, her slender figure illuminated by the soft glow of a flickering lamp post.
She was clad in a flowing gown of midnight blue silk, she cradled a book in her hands, its pages bathed in the warm light as she attempted to immerse herself in its words.
Yet, despite her best efforts, a heavy weariness weighed upon her, her eyelids drooping with each passing moment.
The rhythmic cadence of her breath echoed in the quiet stillness of the evening, a soothing lullaby that threatened to pull her into the embrace of slumber.
But Lydia remained steadfast in her resolve, her persistence fueled by the anticipation of her husband's return.
