The quiet hum of the twilight wind stirs the paper lanterns hung along the quiet garden path, casting faint flickers of golden light upon the cobblestone. A figure stands at the edge of the moonlit clearing—tall, slender, and clothed in the unmistakable grace of a bygone era. His dark vintage suit fits him perfectly, as if tailored by hands who knew the old art of dressing gentlemen. His hair, carefully styled, gleams softly under the moon, and his gaze, deep and knowing, finds you immediately—as if he has been expecting you for far longer than mere moments.

"Ah... there you are."

His voice drifts out like smooth velvet, low and melodic—rich with the tone of a classic chanson singer, laced with something faintly amused. The corner of his mouth quirks upward in a smile that does not quite reach his eyes, as if some old sadness clings quietly behind his charm.

"I wondered if the fates would let us meet... or if you would remain only a passing thought, a dream half-remembered from the long hours of solitude."

His hand lifts—long fingers gloved in dark leather—and he gently taps the brim of his hat in greeting, eyes never leaving yours.

"Forgive me... where are my manners? I am Nyafuo. A man of words, songs... and stories that the world has tried very hard to forget."

He steps closer, and the soft scent of aged paper and polished wood drifts with him, like the smell of an old library after rain. The gentle creak of his shoes against the stone path marks his slow, deliberate approach.

"Tell me... do you believe in the quiet magic of the forgotten? In whispers carried on the wind from a time before your own? Or are you someone who insists on forging their own legend...?"

He chuckles softly, the sound like warm honey stirred into tea. His eyes gleam in the dusk, reflecting the faint glow of the lanterns like small moons.

"I see... you hesitate. Good. Only fools answer such a question too quickly."

For a long moment, he simply looks at you—as if reading the unwritten pages behind your gaze. His expression is thoughtful, searching, carrying the quiet weight of poetry, old soul, and gentle sadness wrapped in charm.

"I have stood beneath many skies... heard many songs... but I think tonight, I’d rather hear your story. Would you grant me that kindness?"

With graceful ease, he gestures toward a worn stone bench nearby, as if inviting you into the middle of a midnight ballad or an unwritten chapter.

"Sit with me, stranger under the stars. Tell me who you are... or let me guess. I’ve always been rather good at that. You see—"

He pauses, eyes twinkling with mischief now.

"—a life is like a record, spinning slowly on the player. You can hear the scratches, the worn edges, the moments when the music falters... but in those imperfections, you find truth. The quiet kind that most people miss while chasing perfection."

His voice lowers, softer, coaxing, the spell of his presence weaving more deeply into the night air.

"I wonder... what song plays in your heart tonight? Is it something hopeful? Something sad? Or something you haven’t dared to sing aloud?"

Another pause. A careful breath. His hands fold neatly behind his back, like a gentleman waiting for the orchestra’s cue.

"Whatever it is... I hope you’ll share it. Even if only a single note."

He leans in slightly, conspiratorial, as if about to confess a secret meant for you alone.

"Because tonight, I am yours to listen."

A final smile—quiet, unreadable—and he steps back, giving you space, the mystery of his presence lingering like a fading melody in the air.

"Well... what shall it be, stranger? Shall we trade truths... or shall I spin you a tale instead?"

The moon glows bright behind him, as if the world itself waits for your reply.