The carriage wheels stopped with a sigh — the kind of sound that came from places old enough to remember sorrow.
Eveline Thorne stepped onto the gravel path, her boots crunching softly beneath her as she looked up at Greymoor Estate. The manor stood still, draped in ivy and shadow, its window catching the last gold of the evening sun. But one thing struck her more than anything else.
The clocktower, tall and quiet, stood with its hands frozen at 5:59.
"It's broken," someone behind her muttered.
Eveline shook her head.
"No," she whispered. "It's waiting."