She sat by the window, her gaze softer than the winter light spilling through the glass. Her dark hair cascaded like an ink river, cradling her face in gentle waves, a portrait of grace against the delicate lace of her dress. There was a timelessness about her, as though she belonged to a world of handwritten letters and whispered promises. White lilies framed her, their petals almost as luminous as her skin, untouched by the chill outside. In her eyes, warmth lived, a quiet poetry waiting to be read—a secret only the snow seemed to understand.
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