Dying is not Dead

In my absences, the wreathes had dried out and disintegrated into sticks, fragments of leaf and broken needles. The rest of the house fared little better. Barely a half a dozen rooms showed some signs of use and half of those were furnished enough to make me feel uncomfortable peeking in without an invitation. The kitchen was cold and bare, Stairs groaned beneath my weight and I worried they would hurt someone before they were replaced. The back of the house lay unfinished as I had left it and the garden was overrun by weeds and bereft of flower.

Months had passed. Exploring the basements and subbasements and warrens and catacombs had been an interesting journey but ultimately fruitless. Sometimes stairs would wind upward and I'd find myself in the light of the unfamiliar lands around the house. Each time I would return and slap down new markers, warnings to some, challenges to others. There were more paths to follow down there, more doors to open, but it was time to return to the house proper for now.