The Inky Black

It’s just past 5 am and the sky is still inky black. I was woken up by the insistent rain rapping at my window wanting free entry. “Let me in!”, she cried with such tired anguish, I imagined she had been roaming the moors all through the night. Mr. Oliver Bingley looked on from his warm bed. He had no intentions of abiding her request as if she had been a flighty teenager who had stayed out too late, and now needed her lesson learned.

“Was he being wise or cruel?” I thought, as my eyelids grew heavy and the inky black claimed me once again.

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