Eldrath Mirethorn House and the Parlour That Softened After Its Last Conversation

The parlour of Eldrath Mirethorn House holds a quiet shaped by slow attrition rather than sudden abandonment. Cooled tea, wool fibers, and the faint metallic breath of old ink hover in the softened air. Upholstery curves inward where evening routines once pressed themselves deeply, leaving impressions that long outlasted the hands that made them.

The Reserved, Familiar Routine of Caldria Mirethorn

Caldria Mirethorn, tutor of household sums and measured scriptwork, lived here with her cousin Jorlen, an apprentice clasp-burnisher whose pay fluctuated with each season. Caldria tended the hidden-ink alcove with deliberate order—quills trimmed evenly, blotters turned to fresh corners, slates sorted into narrow tiers. Before lessons she walked a short loop, murmuring arithmetic lines beneath her breath. But when Jorlen’s wages thinned and winter stiffened her joints, her long-kept rhythm loosened. Pages lingered unmarked, ink rims hardened, and the alcove’s careful geometry softened into a muted disorder.

The Corridor Where Her Pattern Began to Slip

Along the south corridor, Caldria’s boots rest angled inward, their laces hardened by disuse. Jorlen’s warped clasp blanks scatter near the wainscot. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped during what became her final attempt at order.

The Scullery Yielding Slowly to Stillness

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs hold pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle stands beside the smooth stone Caldria pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs without structure, its folds surrendered to time.

At the landing’s far end lies Caldria’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin wavering—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Jorlen’s unfinished clasp blank rests beside it. Eldrath Mirethorn House remains dim, unmoving, indefinitely abandoned.