Thornhallowe Virrisend House and the Parlour That Forgot Its Last Routine

The parlour of Thornhallowe Virrisend House holds a dense stillness that seems shaped not by abandonment’s suddenness but by routines stretched thin until they dissolved. Cooled tea, wool, and stale ink trace the room in faint layers. Upholstery curves inward where evening habits once pressed deeply into the cushions.

The Quiet, Consistent Pattern of Linwyn Virrisend

Linwyn Virrisend, tutor of household arithmetic and penform cadence, lived here with her cousin Brannor, an apprentice hinge-facer whose wages drifted with each season. Linwyn tended the inkfold alcove with unwavering care—slates aligned in tiered order, quills trimmed to precise points, blotters turned so no two stains overlapped. Before lessons she paced a small interior arc, murmuring through figures she would soon correct. But as Brannor’s work thinned and her fingers stiffened in winter cold, her once-reliable order frayed. Sheets remained unmarked. Ink crusted at the rim. The alcove sagged into soft disorder mirroring her quiet fatigue.

The Corridor Where Her Steadiness First Shifted

In the eastward corridor, Linwyn’s boots rest angled inward, their laces stiff as wire. Brannor’s incomplete hinge blanks lie scattered near the wainscot, edges dulled by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped during an unfinished task.

The Scullery Where Habit Quietly Unwound

Inside the scullery, pale tea rings line mismatched mugs. A chalk-rimmed kettle stands near the smoothing stone Linwyn pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, its crisp folds softened into formless drape.

At the landing’s far end lies Linwyn’s final corrected slip—ink faint and trembling—beneath a shawl she never retrieved. Brannor’s unfinished hinge blank rests beside it. Thornhallowe Virrisend House remains dim, folded inward, indefinitely abandoned.