Your hands feel the cold stone of this textured tower wall. You look up and see an arched, hollow window gaping like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside than the moonless night sky. Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal, dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind, leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush without its last memory of sunrise.
This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step back toward the woods you braved through on this chilly, moonless autumn night. As the impending fog before you thickens the last touch of almost starry night disappears with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
[First draft] Your hands feel the cold stone of this textured tower wall. You look up and see an arched, hollow window gaping like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step back toward the woods you braved through in this chilly, moonless autumn night. As the impending fog before you thickens the last touch of almost starry night disappears behind the rolling black clouds.
Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind, leaving whatβs left of the thorn bush without its last memory of sunrise.