le transformation into a more profound and unsettling awareness. It wasn't merely the creaking of old timbers or the sighing of wind through drafty windows; it felt... inhabited. Not just by his paren

re elusive company, a silent, unseen collective that drifted through its shadowed halls and lingered in its dust

s dancing in an unseen current, to the hushed solemnity of the library. There, towering shelves lined with leather-bound books, their spines cracked and faded, seemed to hold the weight of centuries, their silent stories pressing down on him with an almost tangible presence. In each space, he sensed them – not always visibly, but as a fain

ble, its silvered mirror cracked and clouded with age, he would catch the faintest, most delicate scent of lavender, a floral fragrance that seemed to bloom for a fleeting moment in the stagnant air and then vanish, leaving behind only the pervasive mu

o the gloom, a haphazard pile of worn wooden blocks scattered across the dusty floorboards, a faded picture book lying open on a tiny, narrow bed, its pages brittle and yellowed – Edward sometimes heard the faintest sound of a child's humm

e rhythmic creaking of the old roof in the breeze, felt like a world apart, a space where the veil between the living and the... not-living seemed thinest. Finn would listen intently, his obsidia

edroom. They were sitting near the window, watching the bruised purple and grey clouds drift across the vast expanse of the sky like silent, spectral ships sailin

nted glimpses of the house's history that Finn offered, these brie

he himself were peering into the mists of time. "A sailor, I think. Or a soldier. Someone who w

od waiting, the long, empty hours stretching out, devoid of the presence of some

ly a whisper, the question tinged with a sense

aleb. He... he loved to hum. He had a favorite tune, a silly little thing about a bluebird with a broken wing. H

, his voice barely audible, a sense

sound that now seemed less like the house breathing and more like it sighing. "He... he was sick. A fever too

. The house felt so saturated with sadness, so heavy with the lingering echoes of loss. It made t

o?" Edward asked, a hopeful note, fragile as

bright and warm, but it doesn't leave much of a trace. Sadness... sadness clings to places, like dust that settles deep into the cracks. But sometimes... so

trains of music, a lively waltz that seemed to dance on the air for a fleeting moment before dissolving back into the silence. He spoke of a brief feeling

en shrouded in sorrow. But the prevailing atmosphere remained one of quiet melancholy, a pervasive sense of waiting and loss t

impsed gliding through the shadowed hallways, pause for a moment outside the nursery door, straining his ears for the faint, tuneless hum of Caleb, and occasionally sit in the drawing-room, closing his eyes and concentrating with all his might, trying to recapture

ed to understand the depth of their sadness, the reasons for their lingering presence in this earthly realm, trapped between worlds. In a way, he

rown garden below. A rusted swing set stood forlornly in one corner, its chains swaying gently in the breeze

n that swing?" Edward asked, point

r than the usual gloom, crossing his pale features. "A little boy. Younger than Caleb, I thi

question forming in his mind, a question about Finn himself, about the profound sadness that seemed to reside deep within his black eyes, a sadness that mirrored the house's own pervasive melancholy. But the words caught in his throat, a sens