It is night here, always, and you will find that’s the kindness of it. Nothing is hidden in Ravenfell so much as resting — the colors haven’t gone, they’ve only gone quiet, the way a house settles after the last lamp. Ravens run the postal service and take their work seriously; a bat hangs at every corner doing the patient labor of a streetlamp.

Your eyes do something here they’ve forgotten how to do in brighter places: they soften, they widen, they trust. You came because daylight had started asking too many questions, and the dark, it turns out, only ever asks one — will you rest now? — and means it gently.