Ever wondered about that house at the end of Duskwood Lane? The one that flickers and hums?
She was here just yesterday, tracing her fingers over the words, words that had once danced harmlessly in the twilight. Now they cling to her like ghosts. Behind her, another story whispers—not audible, just felt, like a caress of history's sigh.
There's talk of a bargain rooted in brambles and mist. Sound impossible?
Paul, or was it Marjorie?, once claimed to have seen shadows sketching patterns on their wall, scribbling messages meant for eyes that had never opened.
Perhaps return tomorrow, or perhaps not at all. But if you do, remember to listen.