The Last Sun Singer

The heavy oak door of Blackhollow Manor slammed shut behind you with a sound like a coffin lid, and the last sliver of outside light died with it. The air turned cold and thick, tasting of dust and something older—something that had been waiting.

You pressed your palm flat against the wood. It was warm. Alive. The house was breathing.

A whisper curled through the corridor, soft as silk over stone. "At last."

Your throat tightened. You knew that voice—not with your ears, but with your bones. It had been calling to you for years, a low hum beneath every sunrise you'd ever sung into being. And now you were inside it.

The walls shifted, groaning, and a corridor that hadn't been there a moment ago stretched before you, lined with doors that all looked the same. From somewhere deep in the house, a faint melody drifted—not yours, but familiar. A song you'd half-forgotten.

Then, behind you, a voice—sharp, human, annoyed.

"Did you just lock us in, or was that the house?"

You turned. A stranger stood in the shadows, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with dry amusement. Morrow. You hadn't heard them follow you in.

The house whispered again, closer now, almost at your ear. "Sing for me, little sun. I'll let you out. One year per dawn. How many do you have?"