As the carriage rolled to a halt in front of some crumbling white fences, Vyan stepped out first, his polished boots sinking slightly into the gravel beneath. Clyde followed, his eyes scanning the area warily.
Before them stood a crumbling house, its paint peeling in long strips, revealing the gray, weathered wood beneath. The windows were opaque with grime, the glass cracked like spiderwebs. To the side, a barn loomed—its roof sagging under years of neglect, the doors hanging crookedly from rusted hinges.
"This place really is the perfect place to commit a crime. There literally are no houses in the one-kilometer radius," Clyde commented.
Vyan didn't respond as his eyes were locked onto the barn, his breath hitching for a fraction of a second. The memories washed over him, unbidden and vivid.
