Hollowmere Vellthorn House and the Parlour Left Half-Arranged

Stepping inside the parlour of Hollowmere Vellthorn House, one senses the interior pressing inward, weighted by dust, dim lamplight, and the remnants of daily order that once shaped these rooms. Cushions sag where familiar elbows wore them smooth. The air carries the stale sweetness of long-cooled tea, mingled with faded lavender crushed into collapsed sachets.

Nothing remains aligned; furniture seems to lean toward its own quiet center, responding only to the slow patience of time.

The Domestic Patterns of Seraphina Elowen Vellthorn

Seraphina Elowen Vellthorn, a tutor of needlework and handwriting, lived here with her cousin Dorian, a young draftsman whose apprenticeship kept him away for long stretches. Seraphina maintained the needlework chamber with careful precision—spools arranged by shade, pins sorted in tins, and cloth folded into immaculate stacks. Her temperament ran gentle yet strained; she often stitched late into the night to compensate for dwindling tuition fees. Dorian’s seasonal layoffs sharpened her anxieties, and the slow onset of her rheumatic aches dulled her once-meticulous routine. As commissions dried up, the chamber filled with half-finished pieces, thread snarled where her grip slipped, and chalk lines left unfollowed. The small scaffolding of order she relied on began dissolving at its quietest edges.

The Corridor Where Order First Slipped

In the west corridor, Seraphina’s walking shoes angle outward, laces stiffened from disuse. A lamp chimney lies cracked beside a duster she dropped during an unsteady spell. A small stack of practice cloths rests on the floorboards, corners curling and seams unfinished.

Tasks That Slowed in the Scullery

Inside the scullery, bowls wear a fine grey film. A kettle rimmed with mineral chalk sits near a cooling stone where Seraphina steadied herself on harsher days. A linen apron—once folded nightly—hangs unevenly from its peg.

At the landing’s end, Seraphina’s final stitched sampler lies folded beneath a shawl she never lifted again. Dorian’s drafting pencil rests alongside it, worn to a nub. Hollowmere Vellthorn House continues to dim under layers of quiet, its rooms sinking further inward, indefinitely abandoned.