The house smelled of dust, old wood, and something faintly sweet, like leather left too long in the sun. The kind of smells you get from a place that’s seen years of history but hasn’t yet let go of the past. It was one of those old houses that had creaky floors and a thousand hidden corners. The kind where the stories of the past seemed to echo from the walls, a faint hum of what had been.
I hadn’t expected much, but as I stood there in the large foyer of the Grimsby House, I felt... something. Like the weight of the town’s history pressed down on me, even as the weight of the future began to form in my mind.
The clock on the wall read 3:03am when I got out of bed and padded down the hall toward the bathroom. The house was eerily quiet. As I passed the dining room, I noticed a faint glow coming from the table where Mitch was sitting. A kettle sat steaming in front of him, and I caught the faint, herbal scent wafting through the air.
“Mitch?” I called softly, not wanting to startle him
