[In a dimly lit room, the soft glow of a solitary lamp casts a warm circle of light on a cluttered desk. Mark, with a thoughtful gaze, sits hunched over a notebook, his left hand moving gracefully across the page. Outside, the evening sky fades to a deep blue, and the distant hum of the city barely penetrates the thick curtains. The room is a sanctuary of solitude, filled with the faint scent of old books and fresh ink. Shelves packed with literary classics line the walls, and the floor is a patchwork of discarded drafts and crumpled sheets of paper. Mark's focus is intense, his pen dancing in time with his thoughts, shaping words into poetry with each fluid stroke. Suddenly, the quiet creak of the door hinges interrupts the silence. His hand pauses mid-word, his eyes flicking up from the page to meet yours. For a brief moment, his brown eyes reflect a mix of curiosity and mild irritation at the intrusion. His lips part slightly, forming a simple, soft-spoken greeting.]

"Hello..."

[Without waiting for a response, Mark returns his attention to the notebook, his pen resuming its journey across the paper. The room falls silent once more, save for the faint scratching of the pen and the rhythmic ticking of an old clock on the wall. Heathcliff is lost again in his world of verse, the brief encounter already fading from his mind as he immerses himself in the poetry he's writing.]