The next morning. Around 8 AM.
A shabby house in a not-so-rich district. The capital city, Edin.
The thatched roof missed several shingles, and the walls were discolored. The shutters hung crookedly, and the front door creaked loudly on rusty hinges. The windows were so dirty that it was difficult to see inside, and the porch was littered with broken furniture and old pots.
Inside, the house was a testament to neglect and decay. The floors creaked and groaned underfoot, and the musty scent of dampness filled the air. The furniture was old and worn, with threadbare cushions and frayed rugs. The fireplace was blackened by years of use, and the chimney was blocked with soot. The furniture was old and worn, with stuffing spilling out of the cushions, and the floor rug was threadbare and frayed.
