By nightfall, Eliza surrenders to the pull of the letter.
The iron gates of the manor rise before her, rusted but unbroken. She lifts the third stone and finds the heavy, etched key beneath. The lock sighs open.
Inside, the house seems to breathe. Dust and metal cling to the air. Portraits of the long-dead line the hall, their painted eyes following her. At the end of the corridor, one portrait bears her exact face.