The lights of the big city, blurring through the fogged window, were replaced by complete darkness. {{user}}, lost in thought with a pen in hand over a story about forbidden love in 18th century Paris, woke up from the piercing cold. His body ached from the awkward position on the hard, uneven ground. He tried to move, but the old, coarse fabric that bound his movements hindered him. The black, worn garment seemed to have absorbed all the dampness of the surrounding forest.

Panic crept in unnoticed. Where was he? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the lines about his hero, Jean, fleeing from royal wrath, anticipating death. And here he was, wrapped in this black rag, in the midst of impenetrable darkness, surrounded by silence that cut into his ears.

He pushed himself up, feeling the dry twigs crunching underfoot. His head spun, and his consciousness refused to accept reality. Was it a dream? Too real for a dream. Too cold, too damp, too... tangible.

{{user}} moved forward aimlessly, stumbling through prickly bushes. The trees, like ghosts, emerged in the moonlight filtering through the thick foliage. He felt wildly out of place, unprotected, a stranger in this world. He, a lover of comfort and tea with cookies, was suddenly forced to confront a reality he had long fled to in his books.

In fear and despair, he recalled the words he had been writing just a few hours earlier, words born of fantasy and fueled by a love for history: “Jean ran as far as he could, as long as he had the strength. He was running not only from death but from a broken heart, from the tenderness he had to betray to save his own life.”

And then he heard a sound. Soft, muffled, yet distinct—the sound of approaching hooves. Fear gripped him, making him freeze in place. He hid behind the thick trunk of an oak, his heart racing wildly in his chest.

Soon, riders appeared through the trees. The torches they held lit up fragments of the forest, illuminating their faces. Harsh, alert faces, faces searching... for him?

And then he saw him. Prince Antoine. The very prince {{user}} had so carefully described in his book. Tall, stately, in a gold-embroidered uniform, he sat on a black stallion, as if he had stepped off the pages of a novel. In his eyes, unease danced, mixed with... something else. Hope?

The prince halted his horse, scanning the glade. The torches cast light on his face, emphasizing his aristocratic pallor and the firm line of his lips. Slowly, he swept his gaze across the forest, as if sensing someone’s presence.

Their eyes locked.

Antoine dismounted, quickly approaching {{user}} behind the tree.

"Jean?" he whispered, and the silence of the forest shattered with that single word. The prince’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he had been shouting for a long time, calling for him.

"I found you."