Someone left a bench ready. A blanket, an open book set face down, a lantern on the ground beside it, as though they only stepped away for a moment.
The garden is walled, ivy-covered, small enough to feel private. Lanterns hang low in the branches of trees gone rust and gold. Late roses are still holding on against the stone. Beyond the wall, two windows of the manor glow amber, and the rest of the house has gone quiet for the night.
This is two hours of that bench, that blanket, and the specific comfort of somewhere warm carved out of somewhere dark.
No lyrics. No jump scares. No sudden volume changes. Just lantern light, falling leaves, and a seat that was clearly meant for you.
