You are Jennifer, visiting your elderly Aunt Miriam.
The afternoon is quiet, the house unchanged. She speaks, and you listen—because that is how it has always been.
Choose the best topic for your follow-up response from the text offered to you on the screen.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="1">Okay!</a>The parlor is just as overstuffed as you remember. The couch cushions are faded from years of sitting in the afternoon sun, and the rug beneath your feet is so thick it nearly swallows your shoes. Aunt Miriam gestures for you to sit, but before you can, she’s already speaking again.
"You know, Jennifer, I always loved this time of day. When I was a girl, we used to sit just like this, with tea and biscuits, and oh, the biscuits were always homemade, none of this store-bought nonsense. You wouldn’t believe how people rush through things now. Back then, we took our time. It was important to let things develop, to let things rest. My mother always said that the best dough is the dough that’s been left overnight, you know, to breathe. Provided a [[crack|Shadow3]] doesn't form. And people—people don’t let themselves breathe anymore. They hurry along, heads down, always looking at their little devices, never stopping to really see. Don’t you think people used to be more patient?"
You look at the old clock on the mantel, its brass hands frozen at a time that has long passed. The ticking stopped years ago, but somehow, the silence feels heavier than sound.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="3">Oh, absolutely. Everything felt slower, didn’t it?</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="3">I know just what you mean. There was something magical about it.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="3">That’s so true, I always feel like childhood summers were special.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="3">You always have the most wonderful memories, Aunt Miriam.</a>
The house smells like lemon polish and something faintly floral—maybe those little dried bundles of lavender tied with ribbon that Aunt Miriam keeps tucked into every drawer. She always said they kept moths away, but you’ve never seen a single moth in here, nor any sign that one had ever dared trespass.
Aunt Miriam is already talking, hands clasped over her apron, a gentle smile creasing her face.
"Oh, Jennifer, dear, isn’t it a beautiful day? The dahlias came in so nicely this year, don’t you think? I always say, a garden is only as happy as the person tending it, and my mother—your great-grandmother, you know—always swore by talking to the plants. 'Plants are like people,' she used to say, 'they like to be noticed, they like to be spoken to, and if you ignore them, well, they [[wither|Shadow2]], just like anything else.' And she always wore the most lovely gardening gloves—embroidered, you know, by hand, not like the ones you buy nowadays. My father brought them back from Belgium, I think, or was it Austria? Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now."
She sighs, then tilts her head at you, eyes twinkling. "Don’t you think flowers are good company?"
You glance toward the sitting room. The lace doilies on the armrests have not moved in decades. The china figurines of shepherdesses and their impossibly tiny dogs stare blankly from their glass-fronted cabinet.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="2">Oh yes, Aunt Miriam, they look just wonderful.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="2">They’re absolutely stunning, you always do such a lovely job.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="2">So vibrant! You must spend so much time out here.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="2">The garden looks amazing, I don’t know how you do it!</a>
There was always a second ledger.
Long before Jennifer was born, before she ever set foot in this house, there was another book kept in the parlor cabinet, identical in size and color to the one where household expenses were neatly recorded. One ledger detailed grocery costs, minor repairs, charitable contributions. The other ledger, identical in every way except its contents, tracked something else entirely.
Train schedules. Hotel bookings. Names of girls who cried too much. Names of men who made those girls cry.
It was the way of things. The men of the Fraternal Order of Eventide built their empire; the women of the Daughters of Eventide ensured it did not crumble. The men made messes. The women cleaned them up.
Aunt Miriam’s handwriting appears in the second ledger for the first time in 1949.
[[Continue|2]]She learned from the best.
Miriam was 19 when she attended her first gathering of the Daughters. It was held in a house with thick curtains, and the room smelled of cloves. The older women were so calm, so self-assured. She was in awe of them.
"This is how it has always been," one of them told her, handing her a cup of tea. "This is how we keep the world upright. The men build, but they build recklessly. They do not account for their own weight."
That night, a list of names was passed around the room. Names of men who had debts. Who had appetites. Who had weaknesses.
One woman, who wore a brooch shaped like a crescent moon, folded the paper into careful quarters. "We cannot make them good," she said. "But we can make them gone."
[[Continue|3]]
Aunt Miriam has barely touched her tea. The light from the window casts shadows along her face, deepening the creases around her eyes.
"And you, dear? You’ve been keeping well, haven’t you? I always say, if you don’t keep up with yourself, no one else will. When I was younger, women took pride in their appearances. A little powder, a little lipstick. Never anything garish, of course. My mother used to say that a lady never needs more than a hint of color. But now… oh, I don’t know. People don’t look at each other the same way anymore. They rush past, heads down, afraid of their own [[shadow|Shadow4]]. There used to be a time when a look could mean something. When a glance across the room could change a whole evening. Do you ever feel like people don’t really see each other anymore?"
<a class="my-link" data-passage="4">Oh yes, I’ve been just fine.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="4">Busy as always, but nothing too much.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="4">I’ve been doing wonderfully, no complaints at all.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="4">Things are good! And seeing you makes them even better.</a>
Aunt Miriam was a good wife.
Her husband had been one of the good ones. That’s what people always said. He never raised his voice, never raised his hand. A respectable man. A charitable man.
She found the letter when she was tidying his study. Not addressed to him, not signed, just a few careful sentences, typed on a machine that left the faintest smudge on the letter e. A girl’s name. A meeting place. A date that had already passed.
Miriam did what any good wife would do. She went to the next gathering of the Daughters and said nothing. When they served the tea, she did not drink. She simply waited, hands folded in her lap.
At dawn, the house was very quiet. By evening, the Fraternal Order of Eventide lowered their flag to half-mast.
Widowhood suited her.
[[Continue|4]]
The lamp flickers slightly as Aunt Miriam leans forward, her fingers laced together on the table.
"You know, I’ve always believed in the old ways. Not in a silly superstitious sense, of course, but in the way things matter. There are rules, Jennifer. Rules about how things should be done. There’s a reason people used to shut their windows after [[dark|Shadow5]], a reason children were called inside before the sun fully set. The world remembers old things, even when we try to forget. Do you know what I mean?"
You swallow. The window behind her is open, just slightly. The night air is colder than it should be.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="5">Oh, of course, tradition is so important.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="5">I think about that a lot, actually.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="5">You always tell the most fascinating stories.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="5">I do know what you mean, Aunt Miriam.</a>
Jennifer has always been perceptive.
Even as a girl, she knew how to listen. Other children only heard what was spoken aloud, but Jennifer? She heard what lived beneath the words.
She heard it when a teacher spoke kindly but a muscle tightened in his jaw. She heard it when a man told his wife, "Don’t be silly," and her shoulders curled inward like a dying leaf.
Aunt Miriam noticed.
"Some girls cry for what’s already happened," she told Jennifer one evening, stirring honey into her tea. "But the clever ones cry for what hasn’t happened yet."
Jennifer had nodded. She was very, very clever.
[[Continue|5]]
Aunt Miriam sighs, reaching for your hand. Her fingers are cold.
"Jennifer, dear… you do know what happens when the moon is dark, don’t you?"
The candle on the table flickers. There is no [[wind|Shadow6]] .
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6">Oh, I think you’ve told me before.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6">That sounds like something I should remember.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6">I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6">Go on, I’m listening</a>You'll forgive me if I don't get up, dear.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="DeadEnd">Miriam? Auntie Miriam?... Auntie Miriam??</a>The work must continue.
Aunt Miriam is dying, and she is dying happy. The tea is nearly gone, and the warmth in her veins is not from the sunlight.
She has done her part. She has watched. She has corrected.
And now, it is time to pass the work to younger hands.
She reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a ring.
Gold, heavy, set with a dark stone that catches the light like the surface of deep water. It has been waiting for Jennifer. It will grant her access to the houses with thick curtains. To the conversations held over clove-scented tea.
The Daughters of Eventide are still here. Watching. Waiting. Because men, left unchecked, will always return to their nature.
Jennifer (that is, you) will not cry for what has happened. You will listen for your opportunity to cause whatever events must happen next. But... why join a powerful but shadowy sisterhood when you could just... be a normal person?
Is joining the Daughters of Eventide really what you're going to do?
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6a">Of course it is. I accept the ring.</a>
<a class="my-link" data-passage="6b">Smile, stand up for a goodbye hug, and ignore the ring.</a>Aunt Miriam died in her chair, and a mostly empty teacup sits right next to her.
Jennifer swore she had no idea how it happened, or why.
Jennifer also denied knowing what that ring, which was a symbol of the Daughters of Eventide (a society to which Miriam always maintained she never belonged to or even approved of) was doing next to the half-empty teacup on the table next to her.
Jennifer told herself and other people that so many times, in fact, she started to believe it herself, and it wasn't long before she actually didn't know.
Maybe ignorance is bliss?
This story has reached THE END without Jennifer knowing anything. You'll forgive me if I don't get up, dear. After all, it seems I just drank cyanide for nothing.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="DeadEnd">Miriam? Auntie Miriam?... Auntie Miriam??</a>Aunt Miriam died in her chair, and a mostly empty teacup sits right next to her.
Jennifer swore she had no idea how it happened, or why.
Jennifer (you) also denied knowing anything about that ring that was sitting on the table, halfway between Miriam and the empty chair where you had been sitting.
You didn't want it, though. Not even as a momento.
You have reached THE END.Aunt Miriam died in her chair, with a mostly empty teacup sitting right next to her.
You (Jennifer) were surprised that the Daughters of Eventide still had so many members.
And you were glad to see that they kept their quaint tradition of calling eachother Daughter of Such-and-Such a star, or Sister-of-such-and-such-a-planet... Saturn, though. Anyone who knows their astrology knows that Saturn is the direst and most severe of planets.
Like father like daughter.
This story has reached THE END, Jennifer has the ring, and therefore you've basically won.You'll forgive me if I don't get up, dear.
<a class="my-link" data-passage="DeadEnd2">Miriam? Auntie Miriam?... Auntie Miriam??</a>