Stormharrow Vylncrest House and the Parlour That Lost Its Hour of Rest

The parlour of Stormharrow Vylncrest House embraces quiet as though it has worn it for decades. Dust rises in a slow plume from the softened rugs, carrying the faint scent of cooled tea and wool into the stale air. Nothing of motion remains—every curve of furniture has sagged into a shape shaped only by absence.

The restrained domestic pattern of Edaline Fawne Vylncrest

Edaline Fawne Vylncrest, tutor of household handwriting and domestic sums, once built her days around a measured order. She lived with her brother Aldric, a lace-cutter whose seasonal work wavered unpredictably. Edaline maintained the lesson stall with unwavering care: quills sharpened to clean points, slates stacked in neatly leveled piles, ledgers arranged in graduated rows. She paced a shallow arc before lessons, murmuring lines she meant to correct. But as Aldric’s wages dwindled and her own joints stiffened in winter, her routine frayed. Papers lay uncorrected, ink grew thick at its rim, and the stall itself began to slump toward disarray.

The corridor where her steadiness loosened

Down the north passage, Edaline’s shoes sit angled inward, their laces stiff as wire. Aldric’s lace patterns lie scattered near the baseboard, edges faintly warped by damp. A cracked lamp chimney rests beside a dust cloth she never lifted again.

The scullery’s soft collapse

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs hold pale residue. A kettle rimmed with chalk rests beside the cooling stone Edaline pressed to her aching hands. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, its former folds long surrendered.

At the end of the landing, Edaline’s final corrected sheet—ink faint and trembling—rests beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Aldric’s smallest lace template lies beside it, edges dulled. Stormharrow Vylncrest House settles deeper into its quiet, left entirely and indefinitely abandoned.