The Marrowfen House Archives and the Abandoned Leech-Physician’s Table

The room smells faintly of dried herbs, dust-softened cloth, and the mineral tang of expired tonics. Nothing here suggests panic—only a household that gradually folded inward until routine simply stopped.

The Quiet, Unconventional Life of Dr.

Alistair Rowan Marrowfen
Dr. Alistair Rowan Marrowfen, a traveling leech-physician and early practitioner of medicinal hydrotherapy, lived here with his aunt, Hestera, and her ward, Mallie. Known for his calm bedside manner and unorthodox but gentle treatments, Alistair kept meticulous notes on patient responses, water temperature calibrations, and the behavior of his carefully bred medicinal leeches.

In the Medical Study, his logbooks remain sorted by patient region rather than date. Wax-sealed tonic jars line the shelves, their contents long evaporated. A faint chalk diagram on the wall explains optimal leech placement for circulatory relief. His handwriting—typically measured and steady—began tightening over the years as his rounds expanded.

Hestera’s touch softened the house: linens folded with crisp precision, herbal poultice recipes tucked between books, and carefully mended garments stacked in quiet order. Mallie’s presence lingers through small objects: a carved bird whistle, a child’s letter-practice slate, and a wooden wheel broken cleanly in half.

As Alistair’s travel routes grew longer, the home’s rhythms fractured. Dust crept deeper. Ledgers fell behind. Tonics expired unnoticed. When Hestera fell ill, Alistair attempted to balance care, treatment, and travel, but her decline was swift. After her passing, Mallie was sent to distant relatives. Alistair tried to resume his rounds, but his final notes reveal exhaustion overshadowing precision. One day, he simply did not return. Marrowfen House remained untouched.

A Corridor Faded by Slow Withdrawal

Upstairs, the corridor mirrors the home’s diminishing pulse. The runner rug sinks into soft folds, its pattern fading into greyed monotone. A hall table holds a broken spectacles arm, a bundle of sealing wax, and a half-finished letter about travel postponements. Pale rectangles mark where framed botanical diagrams once hung before being removed with unhurried resignation.

A Sewing Room Caught in One Final Gesture

In the Sewing Room, Hestera’s unfinished care-work remains untouched. A child’s smock lies pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools sit toppled in a spectrum of faded pastels. Pincushions hardened by age hold rusted needles at crooked angles. Folded muslin stiffened along its creases rests like a garment waiting for hands that never returned.

Behind the lowest crate lies a slip in Alistair’s tightening script: “Prepare new tonic — tomorrow.” The date was never written. Marrowfen House remains abandoned, its tomorrow permanently suspended.