White Lie

Upon the arrival of the 20th century, the Harlaxton Manor was oddly quiet. There had been no celebration, no even the slightest decoration could be seen. Once, the manor was full of life and joy, the only place that could be compared to the palace's majesty, a dream for many. In which, the owner, Duke Lucas Riddle, was included in the dream.

Now, dry and dull, the manor was nothing but the past. Even with the servants still working and the manor in function, there was nothing to be adored anymore. Dread swept across the manor, cloaking it with sadness and melancholy. Like a rose, its prime had passed. Gone was the glory, gone was the fame.

Was there anyone to be blamed on the decline? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

If one listened carefully, he could hear mumbling coming from the restricted area of the house, the sunroom, repeating again and again the same words. As if the person was waiting, hoping that one day to hear the voice of his beloved.