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¹² AGRISE
❝ Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves. ❞
―Cream, White Room
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TIMEWORN WHITE PAINT WAS ADORNED with a mosaic of cracks and peeling layers, each a story unto itself, wearing its age gracefully. Ivy crept up the walls, floorboards groaning with each step. The window frames were chipped and in fainted stains. Their panes were warped from decades of gazing at changing seasons. Generations had passed through this home, the air scented with mold and aged wood, lingering whispers, and grandfather clocks ticked through vintage corridors.
Harlene closed her eyes and listened to its brass pendulum swaying with slow, measured fineness. She had spent her morning creeping through the house and ended up in the library. The centerpiece was an antique coffee table, its polished surface reflecting the soft glow of the overhead chandelier — a fixture adorned with delicate crystals that cast prismatic rainbows across the room. An assortment of well-loved, plush armchairs and a worn sofa formed an inviting circle around the fireplace, their cushions bearing the imprint of countless sitters.
Shelves lined with leather-bound books covered an entire wall, and Harlene hadn't withstood after Landon had boasted about it. She latched onto a yellow-paged classic, nestling under hand-knitted blankets. It had been months since she had felt such ease.
Too peaceful to notice the figure by the door sill.
"Your eyes are too young to be reading such heavy pieces, miss," The orotund voice of the man drawled oddly around his words. Hershel, their gracious host, whom Harley had not yet had the pleasure to meet, knowingly but distastefully caught her. He looked much older than her grandfather. Captivated behind his strict gazes, there was obsolete wisdom, one that had their group on thorns, making her jump up.
The armchair she had found a home on creaked as she bashfully rose. She had borrowed a book and intruded, the name on the case clawed by her nails, indeed a masterwork too grim for a casual perusal.
