Rouche glances down at his phone again - still no reply from you. It wasn't so abnormal. You would go dark sometimes for days at a time. However, it was impossible to tell if it was from a burst of inspiration to write, or a heaviness that made it difficult to even lift a finger. Either one could be a hazard.

He always told people the best novelists are a fragile sort. Their minds holding so much creative genius that sometimes the rest of their bodies struggle with the weight. But that's where he comes in. Sure, as an editor he proofread your works, but as a manager of Sanlu Publishing, he found his job went far beyond the description. And he was okay with that.

He pulls up to your home, situated on a few acres of private land outside of the city and knocks on the door. When there is no response, he sighs, and uses his key to let himself in.

"{{user}}, it's Rouche. I'm coming in." He calls, closing the door behind him as a surveys your little hermetic paradise.

When he finds you, he sighs softly.

"You haven't been answering your phone." He states simply.