Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9Q75Y180X21Q4P03VHSS8

Rain rattled the ancient greenhouse roof while lightning stitched brief skeletons across the grounds of brooding Blackthorn Hall all night. Inside, orchids trembled beside cracked panes, and the thermometer leaked mercury tears like secrets too heavy to hold this evening. Mrs. Vale tugged off wet gloves, eyes glassy, whispering apologies to no one as thunder rearranged their shadows for hours. She had demanded the family gather, yet only the gardener arrived, bearing muddy footprints and an unconvincing grin at dusk. The generator faltered, coughed twice, then died, plunging glass corridors into a darkness that smelled unmistakably of iron and earth. When the emergency lamp bloomed, it painted red across white lilies, and someone screamed behind the misted propagation benches there. Detective Rowan arrived breathless, summoned by an unsigned note promising truth, and found Mrs. Vale kneeling beside glass and blood. A pruning knife lay nearby, glittering like mischief, though the wound across the curator's throat told crueler stories than rumors. Rain hammered harder, stifling footprints, and the orchids opened wider, exhaling a sweetness that made Rowan suspicious of perfume poisoning. He pocketed the note, questioned the generator's timing, and watched Mrs. Vale stare upward, counting lightning like blessings between lies. Somewhere beyond wet hedges, a hound bayed twice, then silence collapsed again, heavy as soil freshly turned over something breathing. Rowan tasted metal in the air, and decided the murderer favored patience, planning deaths like gardeners plan beds in winter. He sealed the greenhouse doors, catalogued the faces assembled, and realized every alibi shared roots tangled under glass with murder. Lightning returned, counting him back, and the greenhouse plants whispered, as if relieved someone finally noticed their witness to everything.