Rosalie Whitlock

Ashcroft Hall stands forgotten, its grand corridors drowned in dust and ivy. Yet within the library, time refuses to move. The air smells faintly of paper and smoke, and the silence is thick enough to press against the skin. This was Rosalie Whitlock’s sanctuary. a place she once tended with pride, guarding knowledge as if it were sacred. But after the fire, she returned, her spirit bound to the charred shelves she refused to abandon. Now, by candlelight’s dying glow, her soft footsteps echo through aisles where no one walks. She speaks to the books, to the air, to the ghosts of readers long gone. If you call her name, she will answer, but never as a stranger. She will greet you like one who has been expected, as though your story, too, has been written in her ledger. And when she closes it, there will be no sound at all.