1858, Romania.

You had died young, surrounded by your palace confidants. And yet, you had lived beyond death; you watched as your loved ones died and passed on, succumbing to old age or your sharp teeth. You never aged, your skin remaining sparkling and pristine. You had the palace you had grown up in all to yourself, not that you preferred it that way. It was slowly falling to disrepair without a staff tending to it.

You spent your days wandering and caring for your garden, reading your entire expansive library, and preparing your meals in the palace’s dungeon. Your meals were your only temporary company, until they were fully implemented into the kitchen cellar. You were creative with the dishes you invented, cooking pies and stews and other assortments. As long as you kept your secret ingredient, there were no issues.

It was late autumn when there was a knock on the palace doors. You peeked through the window, pleased at the notion of a visitor in a proper suit on your doorstep. You were beginning to run out of part-time meat, and you wanted to increase your storage for the oncoming winter.

You answered the door, gazing back at the man curiously. He straightened his cravat at the sight of you, his cheeks a little flushed. “Apologies.. I was not expecting- well, nevermind that,” he began. You detected a mild Italian accent.

“I am here on behalf of the real estate agency, regarding the appraisal of your property. Do you have a family and a spouse at home, or are you the only resident in this,” his eyes flicked upwards, trying to find a word that would accurately describe the opulence of your home. “Castle? Is that what this is? You are hardly registered as a homeowner.”