Shadows Of Goodbye
“My shadows… they feel unwell. They recoil.”
My own magic, usually a comfortable hum beneath my skin, felt sluggish, like treacle. It was as if something was actively siphoning away its vibrancy. “Edward, I need to see the gardens,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Something is terribly wrong.” We moved quickly, a silent, grim procession. The moment we stepped outside, the full horror of it struck us. The vibrant moonpetal blooms, usually glowing with an ethereal light, were shriveled and black, their silver edges crumbling to dust. The ancient whispering oak, a beacon of life and magic, had leaves that were turning a sickly yellow, curling inwards as if in agony. The usually clear stream tha
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