A rolled parchment left in the Le Bleak Estate, resting atop, a water lily.
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Beauty was hers when she was young
and though youth is always brief,
for the Waif t'was not wasted.
Time and seasons turned for Fran,
and sorrows aplenty came to her.
Yet she was not made bitter or mean.
Rather, while her looks wilted,
her soul did root and bloom.
So deep and wide it grew,
that she bid the world's tears there flow,
to wash from it the stains of grief and strife,
and in so doing make all men,
no matter their sins or triumphs
worthy of love, renewed.
-Rin of Oldflowers
Groundskeeper of Lord Phelan
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