The snow man

Step into a dim, forgotten chamber where every surface is cloaked in dust and silence. The narrator draws you into an odd, square‑shaped room whose angle is oddly sharp, its ancient wooden beams and a massive, unused staircase hint at a long‑ago redesign that never quite finished. A massive copper chandelier, now green with verdigris, holds twelve candles—one nearly consumed—while webs as thick as parchment drape the fixture and the faded portraits that line the walls. A mute, frozen clock rests at four o’clock, its hands forever stopped, adding to the sense that time itself has abandoned this place.

Within this melancholy setting, a faint, unsettling mystery begins to surface: why does the room remain so meticulously preserved, and what unseen presence lingers in the shadows? The careful, almost obsessive description invites listeners to feel the chill of the space and wonder about the story that will emerge from these dust‑laden corners. The first act sets a tone of intrigue, promising a tale that unfolds like the slow, steady tick of a clock that might yet begin again.