That night, under the flicker of candlelight, Rowan began sketching. He traced each corridor, each window, each strange crack that split the walls. The mansion was a mess — but it was his.
Hours passed. When he looked down, his hand froze.The lines on the paper had changed.
Where there had been a kitchen, there was now a hallway. A room had appeared beneath the floor — a basement.
He checked his notes. No such place existed. Yet when he returned to the hall, the air behind the wallpaper felt hollow.
He pressed his hand against it — and a breath, cold and moist, exhaled through the crack.
He tore at the paper until his fingers bled and found a hidden door. The wood was warm to the touch.The doorknob turned on its own, and the door opened just wide enough for him to smell the air beyond.
It smelled like old lungs.