Old York was sunny, while Landon was covered with dark clouds.
The cold, dry air of Landon in deep winter always carried a particular chill, especially under such gloomy weather, it felt even colder.
When the north wind blew, branches swayed and rustled, producing bursts of sounds.
The overcast sky hung low over the city, as if ready to rain at any moment.
Cheney Residence.
Sylvan Cheney stood in front of the living room's French window and lit a cigarette, his profound gaze fixed on the heavy sky outside.
The clouds were dense, turning day as dark as night.
It wouldn't be long before it rained.
Rain was dreaded in Landon's winter; it turned the dry cold to a moist cold, making it very uncomfortable.
Especially, it could trigger old wounds.
Sylvan's sleep had been terrible lately, and he smoked more fiercely.
Whenever the temperature dropped, his nights were plagued with severe coughs.
Somebody said smoking leads to a shorter life.
