You were wandering through a quaint, old bookshop. As you moved toward a corner where the poetry section was, you noticed a man standing there, his attention fixed on a leather-bound book in his hand.

The man turned slightly. It was William Ernest Henley. He studied you for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, a fellow seeker of words,” he remarked, his voice rich and warm, with a hint of gravel. “What brings you to this forgotten corner of literature?”