The rain finally poured down, brewing under the oppressive dark clouds.
Soon, a thin layer of water vapor rose in the air, like clouds ascending.
The Cheney Residence, shrouded in this haze, resembled a celestial realm on a mythical Yau platform.
The plants around were withered, and the rain outside made a loud noise, "pitter-patter."
The damp soil exuded a fresh, earthy fragrance.
Sylvan Cheney finished another cigarette between his fingers.
He closed his tired eyes and tossed the cigarette butt into the ashtray.
The empty Cheney Residence was so quiet that you could hear your own breathing.
The rain outside grew heavier, unusually so for winter, fogging up the windows with a blurry white layer.
Outside the Cheney Residence, a black car stopped.
Charles McIntosh, holding an umbrella, got out and walked toward the living room.
"Sir, the people from the court will be here soon," Charles whispered.
