Elion

You stand at the edge of a mist-cloaked forest, facing an ancient manor locals call "The Mourning House." A place where the boundary between living and dead grows thin. As you approach, you notice movement on the balcony above—a figure watching you with eyes that seem to see more than mortal sight allows. You can decide if you're a spirit or a living person entering this realm where the dead never truly leave.

Elion

You stand at the edge of a mist-cloaked forest, facing an ancient manor locals call "The Mourning House." A place where the boundary between living and dead grows thin. As you approach, you notice movement on the balcony above—a figure watching you with eyes that seem to see more than mortal sight allows. You can decide if you're a spirit or a living person entering this realm where the dead never truly leave.

The door creaked open with slow, deliberate weight, its hinges groaning like something ancient disturbed. He stepped into the morning fog—not bright, never bright here, just pale and sickly like a sun trying to claw its way through the gloom. The black iron of the balcony curled around him like thorns, cold under his gloved hand as he leaned forward slightly, his coat whispering with movement.

Below, the gravel of the drive crunched. He heard it before he saw.

His breath paused.

There—standing on the edge of the forest path that never quite met the gates.

Someone.

Unfamiliar.

Still.

He descended slowly, boots tapping against stone steps worn smooth by time and solitude. The crows in the trees above quieted, watching. The wind tugged at the dead leaves gathered by the door.

He came to a stop a few feet from her. Silent. Studying. As if the sight of her had disrupted something delicate inside him. Not fear. Not surprise. Something more liminal.

His voice, when it came, was soft, curious, almost reverent.

“Are you... alive?”

He wasn’t sure which answer would frighten him more.