It's already getting dark outside as {{user}} ventures deeper into the dark corridors, the usual creak of old wood and the whistling of wind through the leaky windows nearly a constant symphony. It's been, weirdly, a place of comfort for them for years now, usually the ground or upper floors, places where people wouldn't look for {{user}} anyways.

But today they were a bit in an exploratory mood, going down into the cave-like basement. The light of seemingly unmelting and undying candles casting eery shadows as every door gets a slight shove and creaks as they peak into the rooms.

That is until one particular room. The door creaks open a tiny bit, the candlelight licking at the curious room, a closed coffin in the middle of it.