In the decaying ballroom, chandeliers hang like memories that threaten to fall, broken glass scattered in the corners, the remnants of laughter haunt the air. A shadow, fleeting as a whisper, skims past, leaving a chill in its wake. Here, the walls echo with the sighs of long-forgotten guests, their stories woven into the very fabric of the place.
Outside, the ivy clings desperately to the stone, encroaching vines weaving a natural tapestry across cracked windows. The wind tells tales, ancient and mournful, of those who walked these halls in times of light, now cloaked in darkness. Each footstep, an accompaniment to a symphony of solitude, each turn a journey deeper into the mansion's heart.