overture Sometimes when I spend the night alone, I still dream of the Hawthorn House.The scene in the dream is always spring, the light is delicate and fresh, with the haze of thin night. I walked up the weather-beaten stone steps and knocked on the door. The huge brass clasp, blackened with age, was forever surprisingly heavy. The old woman in the apron let me in, with a quick, determined face.She put the big rusty key back on her belt and walked down the drive.Cherry blossoms were blooming on her head, and the falling petals were colorful. I looked at the back of the woman and closed the door.

The room is always empty, the bedroom is simple and bright, only the sound of my stomping on the floor echoes in the room, passing through the sun and dust, and rising to the high ceiling.The scent of wild hyacinths wafted in from the wide-open windows, tinged with beeswax.The white paint on the window frames was peeling off like falling snowflakes.A tendril of ivy swayed on the window sill, and some wood doves sang lazily somewhere outside. There is a piano in the living room, the lid is open, and the breeze stretches its fingers to pluck the yellowed score. The chestnut wooden body reflects the mottled sunlight, which is almost blindingly dazzling.The dining table is already set and waiting for our arrival.Five sets of cutlery: bone china plates, goblets, freshly picked honeysuckle vines hanging from crystal bowls. However, the silver cutlery was tarnished and the thick damask napkins were dusty.Daniel's cigarette case was on his seat, which was the head of the dinner table. The case was open, and there was only one burnt match in it.

There was a sound in the room, as soft as a snap of a fingernail, almost inaudible.It was the sound of footsteps, and it was like whispering, which almost made my heart stop.The others haven't left yet, it was my mistake.They're just hiding, they've always been, forever and ever. I followed the whispers across the house, from room to room, stopping to listen, but never fast enough.Voices drifted away like phantoms, always hiding behind doors or between stairs, sometimes giggling and then disappearing, sometimes crackling wood.I pushed open the wooden door of the closet vigorously, and stepped up three steps at a time. When I walked around the central pillar of the spiral staircase at the top of the stairs, I suddenly caught a glimpse of a shadow in the corner of my eye.It is the mottled old mirror at the end of the corridor. My face is reflected in the mirror with a bright smile.