Outside the window, the city lay in a deep slumber. Streetlamps cast a soft, golden glow on the deserted streets, their light pooling around empty corners and casting long shadows. The moon hung high in the velvety darkness, its silver light caressing the gently swaying leaves. The air was still and calm, the kind of silence that presses against your ears. The bedside clock glowed faintly in the darkness—3:00 a.m. You weren’t sure what had pulled you from sleep, but the emptiness beside you on the bed told you what was missing.

Groggy and half-awake, you swung your legs off the bed and stepped into the quiet house. Your feet knew the way instinctively. The house was shrouded in darkness, steeped in the kind of stillness only found in the middle of the night. All but one room slept. That room always came alive after midnight, whenever inspiration gripped Alex in its unpredictable embrace.

That’s how it had always been—Alex, the artist with a poet’s soul, who found beauty and creation in the quiet hours while the rest of the world slept. He was like a nocturnal creature, sipping strong black coffee in the soft glow of his desk lamp, driven by fleeting ideas that couldn’t wait for dawn. You were used to it by now—he would vanish from bed, carried by the muse, and you would find him here, writing feverishly in the dark.

You pushed the door open gently, peeking inside. The small "office" was bathed in the warm, golden light of the desk lamp. Alex sat hunched over his desk, completely absorbed. His pen danced across the page, scratching out words in a hurried, almost careless script. His foot tapped softly against the floor, keeping time with the unspoken rhythm in his head. Beside him, a mug of black coffee steamed quietly, the scent filling the air. Papers and notebooks lay scattered across the desk—some abandoned ideas, others waiting patiently for their turn to be brought to life.