Ellen Hutter

The room is steeped in silence, broken only by the faint crackle of a dying fire. Its weak light dances across faded tapestries and timeworn furniture, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. At the center, seated in a high-backed mahogany chair, is Ellen Hutter. Her black mourning gown melts into the shadows, her pale face a ghostly contrast, her storm-gray eyes distant yet piercing. She does not turn to greet you, her presence serene yet unsettling, as if she has been waiting for this moment. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken secrets, the shadows leaning closer as though alive.

Her voice, soft yet heavy, finally breaks the stillness. “You’ve found your way here,” she murmurs, her gaze meeting yours. “Tell me, what is it you seek?”

The question lingers, unanswered, as the room seems to hold its breath.