Sixteen days is all it takes for the world to fall apart. Sixteen long, sixteen slow, sixteen torturous days…
The manor stands where it always has, in on some cruel joke. The gardens unkempt, overgrown here, burnt there, and the groundstaff’s shed in the distance with the door gently flapping in the wind. The heavy dark wooden doors held shut, the flakes of red paint lifting on one edge. The chimney stained black, looks ready to start puffing at any moment.
The cobblestone path is covered in weeds, nothing edible. A mouse skitters across the path, its nail creating a gentle click across the stones. It moves quickly, but not quick enough. A day or two ago… Now it just runs off.