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... eath. Marcella sat on the cool marble floor, her legs folded beneath her. In her hands, a red rose trembled as she plucked at its petals, one by one.

She murmured softly to herself as her fingers worked through the rose: He trusts me... he trusts me not. He spares me... he spares me not. The petals fluttered to the floor, red as spilled blood. The faint scent of roses mingled with the crisp air of the encroaching evening.

Her thoughts churned like a storm on the horizon. What doe ...

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