A manor at night has a sound that a house does not.
It is the particular quiet of rooms that are too large for the people who live in them, corridors that carry footsteps further than they should, a clock somewhere behind a closed door, moonlight arriving in long rectangles on stone that has been worn smooth by centuries of nothing happening.
This is two hours of that. No lyrics. No sudden changes. A distant creak that could be the building or could be something else, and a silence that never quite settles, because manors like this one were never designed for silence.
It was made for reading in the dark, and for the particular stubbornness of deciding that one more chapter is still reasonable at this hour.
