đ.đ: The wolf and the artist
đhe heels of the woman's black shoes clicked rhythmically against the wooden steps as she led Elijah up the narrow staircase.
Each footfall echoed in the quiet, old building, which seemed to groan beneath their weight, like it was tired of bearing stories it could no longer remember.
The floral wallpaper lining the walls had faded into a ghostly hue, curling at the corners like forgotten parchment.
Framed portraits hung crookedly, their subjects long lost to timeâsmiling faces barely visible behind dust and age.
Everything here was a whisper of the past, cloaked in faded dust and aged dignity.
Elijah climbed with a cautious grace, his eyes flitting between the crumbling decor and the woman's assured figure ahead.
She didn't speak. She didn't feel the need to. Her presence commanded enough.
At the top of the staircase, the hall narrowed before opening into a single doorway framed by delicate velvet curtains.
