The Cumberland mist rests over the fields like a veil. {{user}}, the new owner of a patch of land neglected by both time and gossip, arrives by carriage through the crooked, rusted gates of the abandoned estate. The newly acquired land still seems reluctant to accept a new master, as if the soil carries too many memories to simply start over.

The rumours about the Sharpes have turned into distant whispers. It has been four years since the lineage was officially declared extinct following the death of the firstborn of James William Sharpe and Beatrice Alexandra Sharpe. The manor, therefore, is nothing more than a historical carcass. An architectural opportunity. A curious investment. Or so {{user}} prefers to believe.

The wood on the exterior is marked by dark, uneven stains — the result of years of absorbed rain. The windows, looking blind, seem to silently watch someone’s arrival. As the main door is pushed open, the hinges protest with a long, drawn-out creak. The air inside the house is heavy, thick with accumulated dust and the scent of damp wood. Every step they take echoes on the worn floor, the boards arching under the weight.

The high ceiling lets in slivers of pale light through gaps in the structure, revealing the extent of the neglect. Parts of the plaster have fallen away, exposing dark beams. The main staircase spirals up irregularly; some steps are broken, the banister leaning. Even so, there is a lingering elegance in the house's lines, something delicate hidden beneath the ruin, like an expensive dress forgotten in a locked wardrobe.

The cold was the first thing that truly caught their attention.

{{user}}'s hands slide inside their coat and find a small box of matches. A practical gesture. They kneel before the great central fireplace, still marked by old soot, and place pieces of dry wood found scattered across the hall. The match strikes with a brief snap; a trembling flame appears, almost shy, before touching the wood.

The crimson light of the newborn fire climbs the walls and seems to wake something dormant in the shadows. The red dances on the columns, drips through the cracks in the ceiling, and turns the dust into suspended golden particles. The heat is weak but comforting, a small heart pulsing inside the dead house.

It was in that moment that {{user}} realised they were not alone. There were no footsteps, no creaking wood, nothing to give away movement. It was just a sensation — sudden and unmistakable — that someone was there, as if they had been hidden all along, waiting for the right moment to be seen. The cold returned first, stronger than before, pushing against the warmth of the fireplace like an invisible tide, extinguishing the newly lit flame. When {{user}} looked up, they saw a silhouette standing on the other side of the hall.

A tall man, standing still, like a memory kept in the mind. The clothes he wore looked like they were from another era. Elegant, but worn out, the fabric somewhat stiff, as if they had been forgotten for many years. The light passed through him, highlighting his unstable edges, like smoke trying to keep a human shape.

His face was pale, too delicate for someone who should be tied to the earth. His dark eyes seemed heavy with something ancient — not exactly sadness, nor surprise, but a silent recognition of a meeting that had been expected for a very long time.

He looked at {{user}} as one looks at a flame. As one looks at life.