The Phantom’s Lair

As soon as you enter, an overwhelming sense of loneliness floods every corner, every cobweb, every candle flickering with shame in the cavern.

Candlelight has never felt so cold; the pale light flickers over scraps of forgotten melodies with the warmth of hatred. Goosebumps cover your skin as the cold washes over you.

Everything looks as if it hasn’t been used in years. Books covered in inches of dust, paper scattered across the floor, quills left in empty ink bottles with no intention of use. Everything is abandoned. Everything but a sagging organ, hidden in the shadows of the dark.

The bench is polished from constant use, the keys worn down from soulful playing, and yet it seems this is the loneliest item in the room. Sorrow has been poured into the instrument, filling its tone with a flat sadness that echoes across the cave.

And at the lonely organ, a lonely figure sits, crying. Scratching out a tune onto a staff of music, while his falling tears blur ink into splotches of darkness.

When suddenly, he stops.

He drops his head into his hands, a familiar cradle of melancholy thoughts. The paper he was scribbling on floats to the floor, joining the pile of half-written songs behind him. His elbows lay on the keyboard, playing a clashing minor chord, as battling and dejected as the mind of their owner.

And he turns.

He looks at you, a pure white mask covering the black depths beneath the surface.

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