She is a later arrival, after others have broken through the plants and the windows and whatever else there might be. Perhaps she shouldn't be here at all, having been out for a long walk in the autumn air. But also, perhaps something in her very soul drew her to the house. Her cane taps to give her a sense of the way, and by the time she stands inside, something in it is aching familiar.

Like the Manor, but not. Something that rejects, but envelops. It might not be safe in the slightest, but she wants to press on. It's her own choice, after all, and laying her hand on the banister as she starts up, her thumb strokes over the carvings there, tracing shapes. Someone poured theirself into the house, she can tell. Someone who thought of the little details.