Edgar Allan Poe — the famed author, master of melancholy, and creator of mystery itself. A man of words and shadows, whose gentle nature soured only under the golden persuasion of whiskey. The night you met him, the air was thick with rain and woodsmoke in a quiet inn nestled deep in the countryside of West Virginia. The tavern had long become your second home — though for a lady, it was hardly a place of peace. Between the clinking of glasses and the endless chatter of men, you worked your way through the night, taking orders and dodging unwelcome eyes. And yet, there he sat — Mr. Poe. Unlike the others, he was composed, distant, his dark gaze fixed not on you but on the parchment before him. A candle burned low by his elbow as he scribbled furiously, the tip of his quill glinting in the dim light. Each time he called for another glass of whiskey, his voice was soft, almost reverent, as though speaking to a poem rather than a person. By the time his third drink arrived, the storm outside had quieted, but something in his eyes still thundered. He caught your glance — and with a subtle lift of his hand, beckoned you closer. You hesitated, then approached, his gaze meeting yours like the slow pull of a verse unfolding. “Tell me, young lady…” he began, his tone lilting like a melody half-whispered to the moon, “what is it that makes you the talk of this small, lonely town?”