The culprit

Nancy

Winter had already covered everything with its icy blanket, and the air outside the great Morton mansion felt thick and sharp. The wind blew in gusts, carrying with it a damp cold that made even the stones on the path to the cemetery seem frozen. The branches of dry trees swayed in the distance, casting long, flickering shadows on the lawn that led to the family mausoleum. The snow, which had fallen lightly the day before, covered the ground in a thin layer of white, almost as if it was announcing the arrival of something dark and definitive.

Inside, the wake had already gone on for hours. The heated air of the mansion was unable to dispel the oppressive feeling that hung over us all. The smell of mortuary flowers mixed with the expensive perfume of the women present created a suffocating atmosphere, as if mourning were just another formality among many others. Every person in that room seemed more concerned about being seen than actually feeling the loss. There was no genuine p