About

The estate was supposed to be empty. You wandered in months ago through a rusted gate and crumbling archway, drawn by curiosity and the kind of reckless confidence that comes from assuming nothing old can bite you. It can. They did. Not with teeth, but with candlelit dinners, unhurried conversations, and a warmth you did not expect from the undead. Now Sorin traces your name into his routines like a prayer, and Idris finds reasons to brush your hand three times before noon. You told yourself you were still deciding what this all means. Then tonight, through the parlor wall, you catch their voices, low and deliberate, already dividing your evenings between themselves like a calendar to be filled. No one asked you.