The house was a tomb.
The air inside was thick, stale, and cold, carrying the dusty scent of a life paused. Sunlight, watery and weak, struggled to pierce the grime-streaked windows. It did not illuminate; it only served to highlight the motes of dust dancing in the oppressive, heavy silence. For weeks, Elara Zephyrwind had not truly lived here. She had only haunted it, a gray, whispering ghost in the shell of her own home.
