The afternoon sun hung as a pale, weak sliver of gold, struggling to pierce the gray London clouds that had settled over the city like a shroud. It cast long, skeletal shadows across Nina's small living room, painting the worn furniture in shades of melancholy that matched her mood.
She paced the floor, each frantic step drawing groans from the ancient floorboards beneath her feet… a chorus of complaint that seemed to echo her own frustration. In her hand, she clutched the script for The Ashes of Valeria, its pages now crumpled, edges soft from her relentless grip over the past forty-eight hours.
