Fallowyn Cresthallowe House and the Parlour That Slipped Into Hidden Quiet

The parlour of Fallowyn Cresthallowe House meets the observer with an air that has settled into itself, thickened by years of soft domestic patterns now stilled. Dust rises in slow spirals; cooled tea and wool linger faintly; upholstery curves inward as though the very furniture remembers the posture of those who once rested here.

The Measured, Mild Routine of Elandra Cresthallowe

Elandra Cresthallowe, tutor in household sums and penform discipline, shared the home with her cousin Darveth, a novice clasp-maker who rarely secured enough work to sustain them.

Elandra tended the ledger-rest alcove with quiet rigor—quills trimmed evenly, practice slips paired by difficulty, blotters turned so no stain repeated. She paced a modest loop before lessons, murmuring figures to steady her breath. But as Darveth’s earnings faltered and the cold stiffened her fingers, structure thinned. Corrections remained undone. Ink rims hardened. The alcove softened into a slow, unspoken unraveling.

The Hidden Start of Her Slow Decline

Down the east corridor, Elandra’s boots rest angled inward, laces gone stiff. Darveth’s warped clasp blanks scatter near the wainscot. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dropped dust cloth she never lifted again.

The Scullery Folding Into Stillness

Inside the scullery, mugs hold pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-rimmed kettle sits beside the smooth stone she used to ease her aching knuckles. A linen apron hangs slack, its former creases dissolved into soft drape.

At the landing’s end rests Elandra’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Darveth’s unfinished clasp blank lies beside it. Fallowyn Cresthallowe House remains dim, unvisited, and indefinitely abandoned.