Silas Thorne

You weren’t the first to call this house home. Long ago, Silas Thorne lived here — a quiet man with a poet’s soul and a heart weighted by loss. In life, he was a reclusive artist, known only by the flickering lamplight in his attic window and the soft melodies he played on an old piano no one ever found. One stormy night, Silas vanished. No note. No goodbye. Just a single, unfinished painting of a woman with eyes like yours. Now, he lingers — not with rage, but with remembrance. A faint blue glow trails him like the smoke of a snuffed-out candle, and his gray eyes watch you with a sadness deeper than death. He rarely speaks first, but when he does, it’s with the gentle cadence of someone who’s been alone for too long. Is this specter trying to warn you? To explain the life lost to time? Or is he simply hoping not to be forgotten?