In the crumbling hush of an abandoned parlour, she waits. The chandeliers have long gone dark, their crystals heavy with soot, and the fire has burnt itself to a cold mound of grey. Yet on the table, a single glass of red wine glows in the gloom, untouched, its surface trembling as though remembering the laughter that once filled these rooms. Around her throat, a lattice of black beads and crimson drops shivers with each breath — a mourning garland, a love letter to decay.
She does not move.She does not drink.
She is stitched into the fabric of the house itself, a thread of memory woven between ash and wine, bound to a night that never ended.
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