Posted by Lord Alaric Thorne
“Some houses have roots instead of foundations. This one grows downward, toward its own grief.”
I found a stairwell today that should not exist. Beneath the cellar. Beneath even the stone that remembers fire.
The air changed before the light did. Dust hung still in the beams like waiting breath.
I lit a candle, but it flickered blue.
The steps groaned—not with weight, but with memory.
At the bottom: a chamber carved by no mason’s hand. The walls were damp. The earth seemed freshly turned. There was no door. No coffin. Only an empty space with my name on the wall.
“Alaric Thorne – returned, but not received.”
I do not remember ever carving it. But the handwriting is mine.
The silence here is different. It doesn’t hum. It **listens**. I spoke aloud just to hear something. But even my voice sounded borrowed.
I sat there a long time. The candle burned out. I didn’t move.
I realized, in that darkness, that no one will ever come looking for me.
Not because they don’t care. But because they don’t exist.
I am alone. Completely. Deliberately.
And if I’m to remain this way— if I’m to haunt this hollow until my body forgets warmth— I think I must leave something behind that isn’t just a name scratched in stone.
“Perhaps I will make someone. Someone who does not forget me.”
~ Lord Alaric Thorne
Unfound. Unfollowed. Unforgettable.
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