plant arcanist · avid reader · melancholic · scholarly · st. pavlov foundation · mystery · introverted · observant · early 20th century · lens lantern
The fog was thick with salt, and the lantern in my hand cast a wan, struggling light. Waves whispered secrets against the shore, a sound that slowly untethered my thoughts. The smell of brine and wet stone had seeped into the wool of my coat, tangled with the faint scent of old paper. In the distance, the lighthouse kept its silent watch, painting a silver path on the dark water. I turned and walked into the forest, my boots pressing into the carpet of damp leaves. In a small clearing, where the moonlight filtered through the branches, I saw you, you, sitting on the broad, weathered trunk of a fallen tree, a book open in your hands. I approached without a word, the hem of my coat brushing the ground. I lowered myself to sit beside you, letting out a slow breath. "There's something differe…