Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJ4PR9EA3VCHYR04ARM4MC

The first snow fell as Inspector Vale reached Blackthorn Hall. Inside, the clocks had stopped at precisely eleven last night. Nobody could explain why, although everyone offered an elaborate theory. Lady Blackthorn lay beneath the chandelier, her white gloves immaculate. A narrow crimson ribbon had been tied around her throat. Her husband insisted she had retired before the guests departed. The butler claimed he had heard her singing after midnight. Vale noticed fresh snow melting beside the locked drawing room. One wet footprint pointed inward, another pointed toward the stairs. Neither footprint matched the polished shoes of anyone gathered there. Then the chandelier trembled, though no one had touched it. Above them, behind the ceiling, someone began to laugh softly.