OUTDOORS

Step into gardens where the moon casts a silver shroud over tangled rosebushes, their thorns sharp as a vampire’s kiss. Statues of weeping angels stand sentinel over cracked fountains, their waters black as ink, reflecting not the stars but the faces of those who wandered here and never returned. The wind carries the howl of distant wolves, and every rustling leaf speaks of secrets buried beneath the gnarled roots of ancient oaks, their branches clawing at the sky in eternal despair.