Drelwyth Hallowmere House and the Parlour That Let Its Evenings Fade Unnoticed

The parlour of Drelwyth Hallowmere House feels shaped not by sudden abandonment but by an evening routine that thinned until nothing remained to support it. The air holds the mingled traces of cooled tea, wool warmed by lamplight, and ink that once dried on carefully repeated corrections. Upholstery bears the softened impressions of habits repeated long enough to leave their weight behind.

The Quiet, Orderly Pattern of Maelira Hallowmere

Maelira Hallowmere, tutor of household arithmetic and measured penmanship, lived with her cousin Trennic, a novice clasp-grinder whose wages wavered each season. She maintained the slate-bound recess with unerring precision—quills trimmed evenly, blotters turned to spare corners, slates stacked in graduated tiers. Before lessons she walked a practiced arc, murmuring figures beneath her breath. But as Trennic’s income dwindled and winter stiffened her hands, her dependable rhythm faltered. Practice sheets lingered uncorrected. Ink hardened at the rim. The recess slowly took on the shape of fatigue she never spoke aloud.

The Corridor Where Her Rhythm First Shifted Out of Place

Down the northward passage, Maelira’s boots rest angled inward, their laces hardened by disuse. Trennic’s warped clasp blanks scatter near the wainscot. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dust cloth she let fall mid-task and never retrieved.

The Scullery Surrendering Slowly to Stillness

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs cradle pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle stands beside the smoothing stone Maelira pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, its former crisp creases collapsed into formless drape.

At the landing’s end rests Maelira’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Trennic’s unfinished clasp blank lies beside it. Drelwyth Hallowmere House remains dim, unmoving, indefinitely abandoned.