Thornwex Pallamire House and the Parlour That Let Its Final Habit Slip

The parlour of Thornwex Pallamire House carries a softened outline of what once defined its evenings—quiet tasks, habitual gestures, the faint perfume of ink and tea. Everything feels paused mid-intention, yet no continuation ever arrived.

The Careful, Even Tempo of Merelith Pallamire

Merelith Pallamire, tutor of household arithmetic and refined penmanship, lived with her cousin Jolvar, a clasp-setter whose seasonal work diminished each passing year.

She kept the quiet-column recess in deliberate order—slates arranged by lesson, quills trimmed to matching points, blotters rotated so unused corners faced forward. Before lessons she paced a small centering loop, murmuring sums to steady her hands. But as Jolvar’s income faltered and winter stiffened her joints, her precision wavered: slips remained unchecked, ink rims dried into brittle rings, and the recess slumped into gentle disarray reflecting her strain.

The Corridor Where Her Routine First Lost Its Grip

Along the inner north hallway, Merelith’s boots lean stiffly against the wainscot, their leather hardened by seasons of disuse. Jolvar’s unfinished clasp-setting blanks scatter near the baseboard, edges dulled by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney rests beside the dust cloth she dropped and never lifted again.

The Scullery Yielding Softly to Its Own Stillness

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs cradle pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle rests beside the smoothing stone she pressed against her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs from its peg, folds softened and surrendered into shapeless drape.

At the landing’s far end rests Merelith’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Jolvar’s unfinished clasp-setting blank lies beside it. Thornwex Pallamire House remains dim, untouched, and indefinitely abandoned.