Fellhollow Bryscraeft House and Its Lingering Parlour

Crossing the parlour of Fellhollow Bryscraeft House, one feels a quiet settling in layers—dust lifting softly from rug seams, stale wool clinging to the air, the faint sweetness of cooled tea persisting beneath it. Every contour folds inward, shaped by worn upholstery, sagging cushions, dulled brass, and the slow drift of objects that once responded to daily footsteps now stilled.

The Restrained Habits of Helena Maud Bryscraeft

Helena Maud Bryscraeft, tutor of penmanship and household arithmetic, lived here with her younger brother Edrin, a part-time cabinetmaker whose earnings faded with each passing season.

Helena kept the practice alcove in meticulous order—slates grouped by lesson, pencils trimmed to even points, inkpots wiped clean after dusk. She counted her steps before lessons, re-folded aprons twice each morning, and murmured figures under her breath whenever worry pressed upon her. When Edrin’s commissions dried and her hands stiffened in winter, lesson hours dwindled. Papers went uncorrected. Ink thickened in its jar. Her once-steady routines slackened, dissolving into quiet fatigue.

The Corridor Where Her Steps Slowed

In the south corridor, Helena’s boots rest crooked near the wainscot, laces stiffened by time. Edrin’s wood shavings lie scattered beside a cracked lamp chimney and a dust cloth she dropped mid-task.

The Scullery Where Small Routines Fell Away

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs carry pale residue. A kettle rimmed with chalk rests beside the cooling brick Helena used for her aching hands. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, creases long forgotten.

At the landing’s far corner, Helena’s final corrected sheet—ink faint and trembling—rests beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Edrin’s smallest chisel lies beside it, dulled to softness. Fellhollow Bryscraeft House continues sinking inward, its rooms dimming quietly, indefinitely abandoned.