The digital clock beside the big wall frame had struck half-past two.
Down the Emerald Witch’s apartment, Anugavalli was buzzing with seasonal chatters, helping calls of trapped chattels, and excited shrills of rain wanderers—that was obviously in addition to the splashing noise of water colliding with premises, rocks, and poles which had then routinized the apocalyptic habits.
Even though, the downpour had halted a while ago yet faint drizzles were stubbornly wetting the surface, spreading a humid fragrance of moist earth, and showing the raunchy wind who was the boss in true sense.
Buried in the pile of fragile pages, the girl sat oblivion to anything happening outside. She was engrossed in her own world—another world—which had become hers totally.
A gust of strong wind
