The garden was pleasantly cool in the moonlight. But to the five men who stood there silently around the weeping woman, it felt as cold as death.
None of them were in a mood to appreciate the pleasant fragrance of jasmine and lilies nor the tinkle of water as it fell in the fountains.
They did not see the moon light filtering down the trees to form myriad patterns on the lush grass that paved the ground.
The woman’s sobs were muffled and no louder than the chirp of crickets or the tinkle of water. The sound of the occasional owl that hooted was even more loud.
She was a woman whose her hair was only starting to grey and lines were just beginning to form on her face. Yet, the grief etched into her features made her look old.
The ravages of tears were evident in her face. Though she might have been beautiful at one time, she looked haggard now. Her willowy form was stooped as if from a great burden.
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