The Greythollowe House Logs and the Abandoned Phonograph-Maker’s Bench

A faint metallic scent fills the room—old wax, drying oil, hardened lacquer. Greythollowe House feels frozen at the exact moment its resident stepped away, intending only to pause.

The Patient, Meticulous Life of Eldric Fenwyn Greythollowe

Eldric Fenwyn Greythollowe, an early phonograph-maker known for crafting custom recording cylinders and prototype resonators, lived here with his sister, Ilyra, and her daughter, Naelle.

Eldric was calm, absorbed, and methodical; he believed every sound carried an emotional fingerprint worth preserving. His notebooks—filled with sketched acoustic chambers and needle pressure calculations—reveal a man quietly but fiercely dedicated to refinement.

In the Acoustic Workshop Study, cylinders sit arranged by experiment, needle mounts lie in small velvet trays, and drafts of resonator horns cover an entire wall. Ilyra maintained the home with gentle precision—linens folded neatly, teas labeled for ailment or comfort, and mended garments set aside in tidy stacks. Naelle’s presence lingers in simple echoes: a paper bird folded lopsidedly, chalk numbers on a board, a wooden flute missing its mouthpiece.

As Eldric’s commissions increased, his handwriting tightened. His measurements grew crowded along the margins. Correction marks multiplied. With Ilyra’s sudden illness, the rhythm of the house crumbled. After her passing, Naelle went to live with distant relatives. Eldric remained a short while longer, but his final cylinder notes show trembling hands and half-finished diagrams. Then he left—quietly, permanently—leaving Greythollowe untouched.

A Corridor Bearing the Weight of Retreat

Upstairs, the corridor holds softened footprints of a household’s final weeks. The runner rug slumps in loose, dusty folds. A hall table holds a broken spectacles arm, a snapped tuning fork, and a journal entry that ends mid-line. Pale outlines trace where framed acoustic diagrams once hung before being removed with steady resignation.

A Sewing Room Caught in Unfinished Care

In the Sewing Room, Ilyra’s gentleness remains suspended. A child’s dress lies pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools toppled from their order have faded into matte pastel hues. Pincushions hardened by age bristle with rusted needles. Folded muslin stiffened at the edges waits in quiet hope for hands that never returned.

Behind the lowest crate lies a slip in Eldric’s narrowing script: “Test new needle pressure — tomorrow.” Tomorrow never arrived. Greythollowe House remains abandoned in still, unbroken quiet.