The wind whipped across the cliff's edge, fierce and untamed,
carrying with it the salt of the sea and whispers of the past. From
the highest turret of Ravencliffe Hall, Isabella Harrington watched
the waves crash against the rocks below, each surge like a
heartbeat against the jagged shoreline. This place, she realized, was
alivea place haunted not by mere memories but by something
more palpable, an ancient sorrow woven into the very stones.
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