—Long hallway, seeming to stretch out into infinity, hardwood flooring but covered with a dusty carpet somewhere between spring and olive green. Doorways, some open and some closed. A staircase somewhere behind him, curving down into what Geoffrey knew was now an empty foyer, uselessly grandiose for mingling afternoon parties and evening soirees that no longer happened. He padded down the hall, noiselessly; in his trail a small cloud of dust motes danced in the rays of the afternoon sun streaming in from the outside. The scene shifted, and Geoffrey found himself in the middle of an empty room. Gilt paneling from the Rococo, a bucolic scene above the mantelpiece, dust in the grate but no ashes from a charred log, not even mouse droppings to indicate that any life had actually ever been present to feel the loops and curlicues of the panel’s decorative flourishes, to look at the painting or poke the fire.