Roses In My Hand
Dust motes danced in the pale sunlight that filtered through the boarded windows of Aurelia's cottage. Falcon landed on the overgrown porch, a tremor of unease coiling in his gut. The place was silent, eerily still, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay. It hadn't been long since they'd returned from their university escapades, yet every inch of the cottage screamed "abandoned."
His claws scraped against the weathered paint as he pushed open the creaking door. Cobwebs, like ghostly streamers, clung to the rafters, and furniture shrouded in tattered sheets loomed like forgotten sentinels. A pang of fear gnawed at Falcon's heart. Where was Aurelia? Why was her haven, usually alive with the rustle of her scales and the hum of enchanted candles, eerily empty?