Wraithcombe Ellenshade House and the Parlour That Held Its Breath

Stepping into the parlour of Wraithcombe Ellenshade House, one feels a faint compression in the air, as though the room were holding the last exhalation of its occupants. Dust gathers in suspended strands near the hearth, settling over cushions worn smooth by repeated gestures. The scent of cooled tea, wool, and dried lavender clings lightly to the fabric folds, never fully dissipating.

Nothing leans outward; each object has curled inward into silence.

The Dimmed Daily Rhythm of Eloen Mira Ellenshade

Eloen Mira Ellenshade, a handwriting tutor and occasional letter-scribe, once kept a quiet but diligent order across the rooms. Living with her older brother Caelan, whose work repairing survey tools fluctuated with the seasons, she arranged the inkwork chamber with slates, nibs, folded practice sheets, and cloths for careful blotting. Eloen’s temperament leaned measured yet anxious; she re-sharpened quills before they dulled, aligned every ink bottle by height, and walked the same three steps between desk and shelf whenever uncertainty gathered. As Caelan’s commissions dwindled, lamps burned lower, and firewood grew scarce. Eloen’s hands stiffened during winter; her lessons shortened. Papers she once sorted meticulously slid into untidy stacks. Her careful routines softened into fatigue, and the house, in turn, dimmed around her.

The Hallway Where Her Steps Lost Their Pattern

In the south corridor, Eloen’s boots rest near the baseboard, laces stiff and bent at the eyelets. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dust cloth dropped mid-task. A small stack of student copybooks leans against the banister, corners feathered by damp.

The Scullery Slowed to a Standstill

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs bear pale grey residue. A kettle rimmed with chalky mineral crust sits beside a cooling stone Eloen once pressed to aching fingers. A linen apron hangs limp from its peg, creases long vanished into shapeless folds.

At the landing’s far edge, Eloen’s final set of corrected exercises lies folded beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Caelan’s last repair bill, ink faded to brown, rests beside it. Wraithcombe Ellenshade House continues to dim inward, its rooms sinking softly into their own unmoving hush, indefinitely abandoned.