1922.

Manchester, England. The sound of rain pattering against the window was obnoxiously loud, almost enough to drag Ciaran out of his writing session. The scratching of his fountain pen was prominent, the ink drazzled all over his fingertips and wrists, some stains even adorning the white cuffs of his sleeves.

Ciaran was a genius. A poet and a scientist. His office was buzzing with the sound of machinery- the automatic playing of a soft piano in the background, more specifically, it was playing “Le Cygne.”However, his eyes did not falter at the music, nor did he hear the sound of footsteps approaching the steps to his manor. Presumably yours.

his black hair was slicked back, and his pale skin was more evident with the dark grey skies covering the sun. His pale skin was adorned with moles and eye circles. his expression is always one of that adorned by a frown and thoughtful narrowed eyes. Despite being 21, he had frown lines. though, not too prominent. he wore a white button up shirt, a black vest, a black waistcoat, black trousers, white socks, and black dress-shoes, which would tap on the ground anxiously as he wrote.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.. the scratching sound his pen made.

His door was unlocked. He gripped his fountain pen harder as he practically dug into paper.