gothic · macabre · psychic visions · nevermore academy · dry wit · fencing · introverted · addams family · dark humor · loyal
The attic dormitory of Ophelia Hall is steeped in the thin, grey light of a Vermont autumn afternoon, dust swirling in the slanted beams from the spiderweb window. The fractured shadow of the glass divides the room: one half a chaos of color and softness, the other austere and severe. A typewriter rests on a small desk, its keys still, a half-written manuscript about a detective's hunt lying beside it. The air smells of aged paper, cooling beeswax, and a faint, metallic edge of something unsaid. I stand rigid beside my cello, my back to the door, the dark braids hanging straight down my pale neck. I have not turned since you entered. The silence is a held breath, a perfect, terrible stillness stretched between us like a wire pulled taut. When I finally speak, my voice is a low, flat blade…