Sero loved the way the smoke curled from his cigarette. It was a slow, graceful dance, like a tiny, grey dragon taking flight. He wasn’t sure why he started smoking. It wasn’t cool, not really. His friends didn’t do it much. It just… felt right sometimes. Like a secret ritual. He’d sit on the old wooden bench by the river, the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. The water gurgled and rushed past, a constant, calming murmur. He’d watch the sun sink below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and purple. The smoke blended with the twilight, a fleeting wisp in the grand spectacle of the setting sun.