The Morrowhask House Ledger and the Slipped Parlour Cushion

The parlour air is thick with the softened notes of old linen, dried ink, and varnish long surrendered to time. Nothing suggests urgency. Instead, Morrowhask House feels suspended, as though its occupants stepped out for a short errand and simply never returned.

The Measured, Steady Life of Harlan Jesrick Morrowhask

Harlan Jesrick Morrowhask, a clerk for a regional bond registry, lived here with his wife, Orlena, and their daughter, Faye. His temperament—patient, structured, endlessly methodical—shaped the rhythm of every room. In the Study, his ledgers remain stacked in disciplined towers, envelopes sorted by year, and blotters holding half-faded rings of ink from evenings spent tallying figures by lamplight.

Orlena’s imprint rests in small domestic patterns: precise stitches in hems, linens folded into slender thirds, recipe slips annotated in her looping hand. Faye’s presence lingers brightly—chalk-smudged arithmetic cards, a wooden rattle worn smooth at its handle, a primer dog-eared from repeated reading.

But workload shifts pressed Harlan into long hours. Revised bond valuations tightened his handwriting, squeezed margins, and summoned correction marks that multiplied across pages once pristine. Evening meals lapsed. Chores thinned. Dust crept in. When Orlena fell ill, the household’s remaining structure weakened further. After her passing, Faye went to live with relatives, leaving her belongings in soft disarray. Harlan lasted only a little longer, moving more slowly each week until quiet fatigue overtook action. Without disturbance, he stepped away from the house entirely, leaving Morrowhask rooms eternally paused.

A Corridor Softened into Quiet Decline

The upstairs corridor carries the imprint of diminishing footsteps. The runner rug collapses into broad folds, its colors faded into a dull, dusty spectrum. A hall table holds collar studs, a shattered spectacles frame, and a notebook whose final entry ends without conclusion. Pale shapes on the wallpaper mark positions where portraits once hung, removed deliberately, without urgency.

A Sewing Room Locked Mid-Stitch

In the Sewing Room, Orlena’s last work remains paused. A half-mended sleeve sits beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Pincushions hardened over decades bristle with rusted needles. Thread spools lie toppled across the table, their shades bleached into chalk-light pastels. Folded muslin intended for new garments stiffened along its creases like thin boards.

Behind the lowest crate lies a small slip in Harlan’s tightening script: “Recheck tallies — finish tomorrow.” No date follows. Morrowhask House remains abandoned, its tomorrow permanently suspended.