The Thryndelune House File and the Abandoned Botanical-Pulsarist’s Worktable
The Tender, Methodical Life of Dr. Emeric Solen Thryndelune
Dr. Emeric Solen Thryndelune, a Victorian botanical-pulsarist devoted to studying subtle rhythmic pulses inside plant stems, lived here with his sister Rhesia and her daughter, Olyss.
Emeric’s notebooks brimmed with sap-wave notations, micro-pulse diagrams, leaf-thickness calculations, and careful tracings of stem oscillations under varied temperatures. Soft-spoken and exacting, he spent hours leaning close to plants, listening through delicate apparatus to the slow heartbeat of growth.
In the Sap-Pulse Chamber, glass vials lie grouped by former specimen, dried leaves mounted in brittle frames, pulse-mapping parchment pinned beneath tarnished clamps, and folded frequency charts arranged in leaning stacks. Rhesia’s gentle domestic order persists—folded linens stacked by wear, labeled balm jars arranged neatly, and mending sorted by thread weight. Olyss’s presence lingers in subtle marks: a wooden leaf-press toy carved by Emeric, chalk waves drawn across her slate, and a folded drawing titled “Plant That Breathes.”
As Emeric’s studies deepened, his notes multiplied. Margins crowded with pulse corrections. Sap-wave plates accumulated faster than he could evaluate them. When Rhesia fell ill, household pacing dimmed. After her passing, Olyss went to live with cousins elsewhere. Emeric’s last entries show trembling waveform lines, half-compared plant rhythms, and measurements drifting into incomplete traces. One quiet dawn, he stepped from his worktable and never returned. Thryndelune House has remained motionless ever since.
A Corridor Slackened Into Dust-Laden Stillness
Upstairs, the corridor’s runner sags into heavy folds, its once-juniper pattern bleached into faint, uneven ghosts. A hall table holds a cracked spectacles frame, a bent sap-gauge hinge, and a pulse-record sheet that ends mid-measure. Pale rectangles on the wallpaper reveal where charts once hung before being carefully removed.
A Sewing Room Held in Its Last Gesture
In the Sewing Room, Rhesia’s final tasks remain settled in quiet suspension. A child’s sleeve rests pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools toppled from their tidy row have faded into chalk-soft pastels. Pincushions hardened by time bristle with rusted needles. Folded muslin, stiff along its edges, lies where she last set it down.
Pinned beneath a warped pulse-chart lies a note in Emeric’s thinning script: “Compare rhythms again — tomorrow.” Tomorrow never reached Thryndelune House.
