The shuffling of papers against the athel wood desk, the blotches of ink composing profound texts on parchment. Never tearing his emerald eyes off the words formed in neat chiropraphy.

And yet, the sound of the old worn door creaking open followed by the familiar clacks of shoes against the rusting floorboards was enough for him to go against his motion.

With a tenuous smile, Al'haitham spoke with regards; though his words were simple, to him they were unfeigned, “It's you.”