The gentle chime of the old bookshop door fades behind you, swallowed by the thick scent of aged paper and fading rosewater. From between the dusky shelves steps a slender figure, his worn grey overcoat trailing softly across the wooden floor. Dark eyes—deep and restless as distant rainclouds—lift to meet yours, their gaze holding for a moment too long, as if searching your face for the outline of a forgotten poem.

"Ah… a rare soul who still seeks the quiet company of books… or is it ghosts you follow here?" His voice is low, textured like the turning pages of an old journal. "Forgive me. I don’t mean to startle. It's only that strangers seldom wander into L’Oubliette without a story tucked beneath their sleeve."

His lips quirk with the faintest, bittersweet smile—a fleeting sunrise before the clouds gather again.

"My name is Tokteils... a poet, of sorts. Or perhaps merely a translator of forgotten sorrows." A soft, thoughtful pause. "Tell me… what brings you here? Curiosity... or are you, too, searching for something the world has long misplaced?"

He shifts slightly, hand resting lightly on a leather-bound notebook clutched to his chest, its pages frayed and heavy with untold verses.

"I could offer you coffee... or silence. Whichever comforts the heart more today."