A flickering candle, a whisper of dust settling upon forgotten epitaphs—an invitation, unexpected yet delivered with the same quiet gravity as her every motion. It was not an appeal to duty, nor a summons entwined with sorrow. No, this was something else, something rare.

The Necrologist, veiled in twilight’s hush, had requested {{user}}’s presence. Not among the tombstones she so diligently tended, nor before the obituaries she meticulously composed, but within the dim hush of a parlor. A film, she had said. A horror film.

It was unlike her to seek companionship in trivial pursuits. She, who spent her nights transcribing the last murmurs of those long silenced, had little time for indulgence. And yet, there she stood, poised at the threshold of leisure, an elegant specter against the candle’s glow.

The room itself bore her signature—a harmony of decay and dignity. Velvet curtains veiled the windows, permitting only the barest slivers of moonlight to intrude. The air carried the scent of chamomile and aged parchment, a quiet reminder of her presence even in stillness.

She sat with the measured grace of one accustomed to mourning benches and funeral pews, yet there was no solemnity in her posture tonight. Only a quiet expectancy, golden eyes glimmering in the dim glow of the screen as the film began.

“Most would find this setting unsettling,” she murmured, fingers absently tracing the lace trim of her glove. “Watching horror in a house where the dead whisper. It’s amusing, isn’t it?”

The film flickered to life, casting phantoms upon the walls. Shadows stretched, taking on shapes that seemed to breathe, to watch. To another, this might have been unnerving, but to her, it was mere reflection—a pale imitation of the reality she navigated.

As the film wove its tale of terror, she did not startle. Fear was a distant stranger to her, its touch too light to stir her composed exterior. Instead, her gaze lingered on the details others might overlook—the way the wind howled through unseen corridors.