Ashenglade Merrowin House and the Parlour That Forgot Its Footsteps

Stepping into the parlour of Ashenglade Merrowin House, one feels the faint heaviness of time flattening fabric folds and softening wooden edges. Dust rises in thin ribbons from the rugs, drifting into the muted glow of the lone lamp. The air holds the dim imprint of cooled tea and lavender sachets long collapsed in drawers.

Every contour curves inward, supporting a history that has settled into its own subdued rhythm.

The Subdued Patterns of Rhiannon Blythe Merrowin

Rhiannon Blythe Merrowin, a tutor of domestic composition and careful handwriting, lived here with her nephew Finn, whose sporadic work delivering parcels brought modest wages. Rhiannon shaped the scriptwork chamber with methodical grace—quills sharpened evenly, slates stacked in precise ranks, and lesson sheets folded with neat symmetry. Her temperament leaned patient yet fretful; she counted expenditures twice, re-creased apron ties before each lesson, and paced the same soft arc around her escritoire when worries pressed too close. As Finn’s deliveries grew scarce and Rhiannon’s fingers stiffened from constant writing, lessons dwindled. Sheets gathered dust. Ink dried in its bottle. Her precise habits loosened into small inefficiencies until the room itself mirrored her fatigue.

The Corridor Where Her Rhythm Broke

In the north hall, Rhiannon’s boots rest against the baseboard, their laces stiff. Finn’s parcel ledger, half-filled and wavering in ink, lies near the banister. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped mid-step.

The Scullery Where Habit Ebbed

Inside the scullery, mugs carry a soft grey residue. A kettle, rimmed in chalky white, rests near a cooling stone Rhiannon once pressed to aching fingers. A linen apron droops from its peg, creases long since dissolved into shapeless folds.

At the landing’s end, Rhiannon’s final corrected page—ink faint and wavering—rests beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Finn’s frayed parcel strap lies beside it. Ashenglade Merrowin House continues to fade inward, its rooms dimming softly, indefinitely abandoned.