The Ghost of Ashleigh Barton

Long before the flicker of electric lamps lit the narrow lanes of Bickleigh, long before the motorcar rumbled through its sleepy heart, Ashleigh Barton stood solemn and immutable—its timbers soaked with the weight of centuries, its stones echoing the footsteps of those who no longer drew breath. Among these echoes moved something older than memory and colder than winter frost: a spectral guardian wrapped in gray, forever tethered to the bloodline she haunted. To be born an Ashleigh was to inherit more than land and legacy—it was to live beneath her shadow, waiting for the whisper of silk in empty halls, for the hush before the storm of grief. She did not speak, nor plead, nor rage—she simply appeared, as she always had, to mark the beginning of an end.