A Duet for the Fog

Verel Manor emptied an hour ago — carriages, lanterns, the whole anniversary party swallowed by the fog on the drive. You turned back at the gates, because you alone heard it: three soft notes drifting up from somewhere the house keeps locked. Now the portrait gallery holds only you, the fog pressing at the tall windows, and a hush that feels less like absence than attention. Somewhere below, behind a door sealed for fifty years, something is still singing.