The Shadow In The Armstrong's Den

The road to a certain destination was long and winding, flanked by dense forests that seemed to close in around the narrow path.

The man walked with a deliberate pace, his steps heavy with the weight of memories that he couldn’t shake. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the only sound was the steady crunch of leaves underfoot.

As the road twisted and turned, the destination finally came into view, nestled at the end of the valley. "Armstrong's Den," the man blurted out.

The house stood like a forgotten sentinel, its once-grand façade now weathered by time. Vines clung to the walls, and the windows, some broken, others covered in dust, gazed out like the hollow eyes of a weary sentinel.

The man hesitated at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on the house that seemed to hold all the answers he had been seeking.

Without a word, he moved forward, crossing the worn cobblestone path that led to the front door. The creaking of the floorboards under his feet