The Patient, Grounded Life of Irin Corven Fallowrine
Irin Corven Fallowrine, a Victorian fossil-chronologist who devoted himself to refining early age-measurement techniques for sedimentary sequences, lived here with his widowed sister Luryn and her son, Derin. Irin’s notebooks brimmed with spiral-measurement formulas, grain-density tests, cross-sectional diagrams, and meticulous sketches of ancient shell patterns. Thoughtful, slow to speak, and deeply observant, he treated each fossil chip like a page torn from time itself.
In the Fossil-Study Room, calipers lie grouped by precision, mineral brushes arranged by stiffness, stratigraphic charts pinned beneath tarnished drafting weights, and trays of microfossils labeled in fading ink. Luryn’s order remains visible: folded linens stacked neatly, tinctures arranged by tone, and mending sorted by purpose. Derin’s traces linger in small gestures—his wooden ammonite toy carved by Irin, chalked arithmetic on a slate, and a folded drawing of a “Stone Spiral Dragon,” its curves modeled after shells Irin studied.
As Irin’s work expanded, his notes densified. Edges filled with corrections. Fossil trays accumulated faster than he could classify them. When Luryn fell ill, household rhythm loosened. After her passing, Derin was taken to relatives elsewhere. Irin’s final pages show trembling lines, half-measured spirals, and equations that fade mid-stroke. One late afternoon, he stepped from his desk and never returned. Fallowrine House has remained unchanged ever since.
A Corridor Sagging with Unfinished Days
Upstairs, the corridor’s runner rug droops in dusty folds, its once-earthy pattern worn to pale outlines. A hall table holds a cracked spectacles hinge, a fossil brush worn to its nub, and a page of half-noted dates ending abruptly. Pale rectangles on the wallpaper reveal where fossil diagrams once hung.
A Sewing Room Resting in Its Last Gesture
In the Sewing Room, Luryn’s final motions remain still. A child’s sleeve lies pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools toppled from their ordered rows have faded into chalk-soft hues. Pincushions hardened with age bristle with rusted needles. Folded muslin stiffened at the edges rests where she last placed it.
Behind the smallest crate lies a slip in Irin’s thinning script: “Measure final spiral — tomorrow.” Tomorrow never returned to Fallowrine House.
