Thistledrift Eirenwall House and the Parlour That Could Not Keep Time

Stepping into the parlour of Thistledrift Eirenwall House, the air feels weighted by its own memory of movement. Dust rises in slow ribbons from the rugs, drifting toward the low lamp whose glow has softened every corner. The scent of cooled tea clings faintly beneath the musk of old wool.

Nothing here hints at outward motion; every armrest, cushion, and shelf seems to fold its story inward, as though the room learned to fill silence rather than break it.

The Tempered, Measured Life of Lunetta Carys Eirenwall

Lunetta Carys Eirenwall, a tutor of household handwriting and modest bookkeeping, once ordered her days around these rooms. She lived with her brother Aven, a workshop assistant whose income frayed with each unreliable season. Lunetta kept the tally chamber in quiet precision—slates arranged by level, pencils trimmed evenly, blotters carefully rotated so no ink ring overlapped another. She paced the same soft arc from escritoire to hearth before beginning each lesson, murmuring sums beneath her breath to steady her nerves. As Aven’s work faltered and her own wrists stiffened, their supplies dwindled. Lessons thinned. Account sheets piled dusty at the edges. Ink thickened in its bottle. Day by day, Lunetta’s practiced order slackened until the room reflected the fatigue she never voiced aloud.

The Corridor Where Routine Began to Slip

In the north hall, Lunetta’s boots lean against the wainscot, laces stiff. Aven’s broken gear key lies beside a cracked lamp chimney. A dust cloth, dropped mid-gesture, rests near a stray ledger page softened by moisture.

The Scullery Where Small Tasks Drifted Out of Reach

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs bear pale residue. A kettle rimmed with chalk stands beside the cooling brick Lunetta used for her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, folds long surrendered to air and time.

At the landing’s far edge, Lunetta’s final corrected page—ink faint, sums incomplete—rests beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Aven’s dulled metal file lies beside it. Thistledrift Eirenwall House sinks deeper into its inward quiet, its rooms dimming softly, indefinitely abandoned.