The Morlithaven House Records and the Ash-Specked Ledger

The parlour air holds the layered scents of long-dried ink, collapsed upholstery, and the faint mineral hush of plaster. Nothing has been disturbed. The house feels paused—its domestic movements frozen mid-routine, its objects waiting silently for hands that never returned.

The Quietly Disciplined Life of Ernest Dorian Morlith

Ernest Dorian Morlith, a valuation clerk for a regional textile consortium, lived here with his wife, Charlotte, and their daughter, Aline. Ernest’s habits—precise, controlled, and understated—pulse through every room. In the Study, his ledgers remain stacked in tidy columns, each labeled in neat ink. Correspondence is sorted by date; receipts are pinned in clusters; envelopes remain sealed or half-opened, depending on the day he last handled them.

Charlotte’s presence rests in the details: folded linens awaiting repair; recipe cards annotated in her curling script; pressed wildflowers stowed between poetry pages. Aline’s belongings remain like quiet interruptions—paintbrushes stiff with dried pigment, school primers smudged with chalk dust, a hair ribbon pinned inside an unfinished composition book.

But strain arrived quietly. Ernest’s caseload multiplied, reflected in his tightening handwriting and growing blotches across his ledger pages. Margins once clean became tangled with revisions. When Charlotte’s health faltered, their routines thinned: meals delayed, correspondence unopened, mending postponed. After her passing, Aline was taken in by relatives; her toys and books remained behind, left in corners like paused thoughts. Ernest attempted to keep order, but the house gradually outgrew his energy. Tasks remained half-finished. Rooms fell out of use. He finally stepped away, leaving Morlithaven House exactly as it had settled during his last quiet days inside.

A Corridor Softened by Fading Footsteps

The upstairs corridor reflects the household’s gradual thinning. The runner rug has collapsed into shallow folds, its raised edges stiff with dust. A hall table holds collar studs, a snapped spectacles arm, and an appointment book whose entries taper into nothing. Pale silhouettes on the wallpaper show where framed portraits were unhooked slowly, not all at once.

The Mending Room Where Time Stopped

In the Sewing Room, Charlotte’s last intentions remain untouched. A half-finished dress rests beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Pincushions stiff with age bristle with rusted needles. Spools of thread, once bright, lie toppled across the table, colors muted into soft greyed pastels. Folded muslin intended for new household linens sits hardened by time, edges curling inward.

Behind the largest crate rests a slip of paper in Ernest’s steady script: “Review parcels—finish tomorrow.” There is no date. Morlithaven House remains abandoned, its rooms dormant in their long-held silence.