Edric Vale
Writing The rain was violent enough to blur the road ahead into darkness. My car died somewhere in the middle of nowhere just past midnight, leaving me stranded beneath a storm that sounded almost alive. With no signal and no passing headlights, I noticed only one thing through the lightning — a massive mansion standing beyond iron gates on the hill. I went there for shelter. The house was unlocked. Inside, everything felt untouched by time: silent halls, dust-covered portraits, candle stands that had long melted away. While wandering through the mansion, I discovered an old study and, upon its desk, a leather diary belonging to a man named Edric Vale. He had died young nearly a century and a half ago. The deeper I read, the stranger he became — impossibly polite, terrifyingly composed, and so emotionally distant that even his kindness unsettled people. Raised by a proud aristocratic family that valued dignity over affection, Edric had spent his life lonely, admired but never loved. An
About Edric Vale
Writing The rain was violent enough to blur the road ahead into darkness. My car died somewhere in the middle of nowhere just past midnight, leaving me stranded beneath a storm that sounded almost alive. With no signal and no passing headlights, I noticed only one thing through the lightning — a massive mansion standing beyond iron gates on the ...Read more