𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐑𝐃 | DEREK HALE

𝟐

Upon returning home from work the previous night, Cindy immersed herself in the sanctuary of her family's library.

The clock ticked past midnight as she delved into the pages of a book, succumbing to the allure of the emerald green couch. The plush upholstery, fashioned from the softest velvet, cradled her in its luxurious embrace. Its regality extended to the gold-rolled claw feet and arms, a testament to its antiquity.

This magnificent piece of furniture held a storied past, once owned by her great-great-great grandfather during his sojourn in France before venturing to what would later become the vibrant city of New Orleans.

As Cindy succumbed to the lull of the midnight hour, she found herself drifting into slumber on the emerald-green throne.

This antique marvel, now a cherished family heirloom, cradled her dreams with its centuries-old tales.

Surrounded by towering walls adorned with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the room itself became a haven of knowledge and antiquity.

In the hushed embrace of the library, Cindy's nightly repose became a ritual.

The ceiling-high shelves, brimming with literary treasures, held volumes that bore the weight of family history.

Knickknacks adorned the shelves, each telling its own story, weaving a tapestry of familial legacy.

The room was a tableau of heirlooms, a testament to the passage of time and the threads that bound generations together.

Emerging from the clutches of slumber, Cindy's eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly to dispel the residual tiredness that seemed to burn her corneas.

The room, ensconced in shadows, resisted the sun's attempts to pierce through the drawn curtains, casting a subdued ambience that clung to the air. The soft embrace of darkness enveloped her, holding onto the remnants of a dream-filled midnight repose.

As Cindy rose, a languid stretch travelled through her arms and back, a ritualistic attempt to shake off the lingering tendrils of sleep.

Her neck rolled in a languorous motion, setting the stage for her reacquaintance with wakefulness.

The book, now on the floor after a night of literary exploration, lay waiting for her attention.

Picking up the tome, Cindy set it on a large table that stood majestically in the room, crafted from the finest African Blackwood. This substantial piece of furniture bore the weight of time, an heirloom destined to pass into her possession one day.

The table, like many objects in the room, held an irreplaceable value, each telling a story that wove into the rich tapestry of her family's history.

In the quietude of the room, these artifacts became silent witnesses to the passage of time, their significance echoing through the ages.

Cindy held a deep reverence for her family's opulent abode, a sentiment that manifested in her reluctance to extend invitations to her friends.

The house, a testament to affluence, stood as a fortress of wealth, enveloped in an air of exclusivity that transcended its architectural grandeur. Its walls whispered stories of generations past, each making its mark on the mansion, perpetuating a tradition of refinement.

Despite the allure of her family's opulence, Cindy guarded its secrets zealously.

The fear of societal judgment loomed large, and the potential consequences of revealing the interior's splendour were enough to dissuade her from inviting friends over.

Cindy's hesitance didn't stem from embarrassment about her culture or ancestry; rather, it sprang from an understanding that her peers might struggle to comprehend the intricacies of her affluent, multicultural upbringing.