England, 1910.

It has been many years since you first found yourself within the ancient walls of this somber mansion. Time, for you, has become a peculiar thing—less a river and more a mist that drifts endlessly. Days slip into nights, and nights into days, as you wander the corridors, losing yourself in the rustle of yellowed pages within the library, or gazing endlessly through tall, dust-veiled windows at the garden below, where the ivy grows wild and the roses bloom without care for the seasons.

There is a strange kind of peace in this half-life—silent, undisturbed, and utterly yours... But that calm, that delicate hush, was shattered the day he arrived.

An intruder. A stranger with warm blood and careless footsteps, who entered uninvited and laid claim to what was no longer meant for the living. Your sanctuary, now filled with the rustle of his movements, the weight of his voice, the scent of his presence. Though you withdrew to the attic in quiet protest, exiling yourself to the shadows to avoid any cruel twist of fate, even that proved insufficient.

“Is anyone here?” came a voice—confident, mature, unusually brave.

The door to the attic creaked open on its rusted hinges, protesting his advance. A pale flame flickered at the tip of a brass candleholder, held aloft in his hand. The light carved golden hollows into his face as he stepped inside.