Vaelthorn Meridalyne House and the Parlour That Softened Into Quiet

The parlour of Vaelthorn Meridalyne House bears a hush shaped by repetition rather than absence. Wool, cooled tea, and old ink trace the air in muted layers. Upholstery curves inward where bodies once settled nightly, forming softened hollows that speak quietly of a domestic rhythm worn thin by time.

The Measured, Hesitant Routine of Ilareth Meridalyne

Ilareth Meridalyne, tutor of arithmetic decorum and household penwork, lived here with her cousin Drayvin, a novice spoolmaker whose seasonal wages fluctuated unpredictably. Ilareth tended the inkborne recess with unwavering order—quills aligned by length, slates tiered by difficulty, blotters rotated to avoid repeated stains. She paced a small arc before each lesson, murmuring through her planned corrections. But as Drayvin’s work declined and Ilareth’s hands stiffened in winter, her accustomed structure wavered. Papers lingered unmarked. Ink rims hardened. The recess sagged into a subtle disarray she could no longer disguise.

The Corridor Where Her Precision First Faltered

Down the middle corridor, Ilareth’s boots rest angled inward, laces stiffened and brittle. Drayvin’s warped spool blanks scatter near the wainscot, their edges dulled by damp. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dust cloth she dropped mid-step.

The Scullery’s Gradual Quieting

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs retain pale rings of dried tea. A kettle rimmed with chalk sits beside the smooth brick Ilareth used to ease her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, its crisp folds softened into formless drape.

At the landing’s end rests Ilareth’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margins trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Drayvin’s unfinished spool blank lies beside it. Vaelthorn Meridalyne House remains dim, bowed inward, indefinitely abandoned.