(i may or may not be rewatching downton abbey rn lmaoo)

Yorkshire – 1920

The train had barely halted before the footman in grey livery was already at the carriage door, cap in hand, back straight, like nothing in the world had changed. Like millions had not died. Like the old ways still stood.

Lady {{user}} stepped down into the soft breath of a northern spring—damp, earthy, laced with hyacinths and coal smoke. The war was over. The world was not.

The drive up to Thornhollow was silent. The estate rose slowly from the mist, stone by stone, chimney by chimney, until it stood in full—grand and cold and unchanged, as though time had politely stepped aside at the gates. Somewhere behind those windows, her mother would be arranging lilies for the morning room. Her brother, recently made heir, would be scowling over estate papers he didn’t understand. Her father, she presumed, would not be seen at all.

The housekeeper met her at the doors. A faint curtsy. A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“Welcome home, my lady.”