The Rimewether House Journal and the Abandoned Ice-Instrument Maker’s Bench

The Delicate, Patient Life of Eiran Solace Rimewether

Eiran Solace Rimewether, a specialist in crafting temperature-reactive “ice instruments” for scientific sound demonstrations, lived here with his widowed sister, Selene, and her son, Mavrin. Eiran’s notebooks brimmed with acoustic experiments—resonance tests, crystalline structures, cooling-time calculations, and diagrams of instruments designed to shift pitch as they chilled. He worked with serene precision, speaking little, thinking deeply, and listening for tones others could not perceive.

In the Acoustic Frostwork Room, tuning forks stand in graded rows, resin molds sit arranged by curvature, cooling rods lie wrapped in linen, and vellum schematics of resonator shapes curl at their edges. Selene’s touch remains in the careful stacks of folded blankets, tidy jars of herbs, and mending arranged by size. Mavrin’s traces survive as well: a wooden whistle carved by Eiran, chalk numbers dusting a slate, and a folded drawing of a glowing instrument labeled “The Cold Song.”

As Eiran gained recognition, his drafts became denser. Margins tightened. Corrections overlapped. Resonator molds multiplied beyond the shelves’ capacity. When Selene fell ill, the home’s steady rhythms loosened. After her passing, Mavrin was taken in by relatives elsewhere. Eiran’s final pages show trembling notations, incomplete cold-curve diagrams, and measurements ending abruptly. One quiet afternoon, he stepped from his bench and did not return. Rimewether House has remained unaltered ever since.

A Corridor Thinned by Slow Withdrawal

The upstairs corridor slouches into tired folds. The runner rug, once winter-blue, has faded into muted grey. A hall table holds a broken spectacles arm, a snapped tuning fork, and a note ending in an unfinished formula. The wallpaper bears pale rectangular silhouettes where diagrams once hung.

A Sewing Room Caught in Its Final Pause

In the Sewing Room, Selene’s final tasks rest untouched. A child’s coat lies pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools toppled from their orderly rows have faded to chalklike hues. Pincushions hardened by age bristle with rusted needles. Folded muslin stiffened along its edges waits in silent perpetuity.

Behind the smallest crate lies a slip in Eiran’s thinning script: “Test resonator — tomorrow.” Tomorrow never reached Rimewether House.