The mansion squats at the end of a snow-choked drive like it was **built to be avoided**. Its windows glow faintly—not warmly, but **as if remembering warmth**. Garlands hang from balconies and banisters, but they’re dry, brittle, and shedding needles onto the marble below. Every decoration looks _placed with care_, then abandoned. Inside, the air smells of: - cold pine - old wood - and food that should be hot, but isn’t Footsteps echo too loudly. Laughter sometimes carries from other rooms—always just out of reach, always fading when followed. The halls are wide, but never welcoming. Portraits show families mid-celebration, all frozen at the exact moment **before something went wrong**. The eyes in the paintings don’t follow you—but they don’t look away either. Fireplaces exist everywhere. Most are cold. A few burn low, as if rationing flame. Music drifts through the mansion—carols played too slowly, slightly off-key, as if someone learned them by listening from outside a window. No dust settles. No clocks tick properly. The house is **waiting**. Not for guests. For proof. ---