Disclaimer: Middle-earth is not mine and I make no profit therefrom.
(I applaud those who included actual chalk this week! I'm afraid I couldn't manage it.)
Míriel steps into the courtyard. The White Tree is in flower; its bark glimmers chalk-pale in the darkness, and the air is heavy with the sweet scent. She is watched too closely to reach the Meneltarma, but surely the Valar’s presence rests here, if anywhere in Armenelos.
Under the Tree’s concealing branches, she pleads silently for a sign to guide her course. No vision rises from the night, though she waits long, straining to pierce the darkness with aching eyes. She has not inherited her father’s gift of foresight; and in the morning, her cousin Pharazôn will demand an answer.