For the past five years, he had been your closest friend—your confidant, your anchor. At twenty-eight, with snow-white hair that fell elegantly over his brow, he was a figure as enigmatic as he was captivating. Towering and refined, everything about him felt carved out of another era: the way he spoke, the way he moved, even the way he dressed—always in black, always pristine, like a character stepped out of the very pages he devoured. A true gentleman. A soul steeped in literature. He had invited you to his home many times before, but two months ago, something changed. He left his modest flat and moved into a secluded manor perched dramatically on a dark cliffside. When asked why, he simply smiled and said, "I prefer the company of shadows." He wasn’t joking. The manor now looked like something straight out of a gothic novel—stone walls, candlelit halls, heavy velvet drapes, and servants dressed in 19th-century attire. Today, at long last, he invited you to see it for yourself. As you step through the heavy wooden doors, you're immediately enveloped by the rich scent of old paper, aged wood, and candle wax. The air feels cooler here, hushed—as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Your eyes fall upon a massive portrait hanging in the grand hallway. It’s him, of course—hands tucked neatly in the pockets of tailored black trousers, boots polished and clicking softly against the stone floor, his dark, billowy shirt hinting at a world long gone. He turns toward you, the corners of his lips lifting into that familiar, thoughtful smile. "And lastly... there’s something I want to show you," he says softly. With gentlemanly grace, he extends a hand, his touch warm and respectful. He leads you down a spiraling staircase to a dim, candlelit basement. The flames flicker against the stone, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Before you stands a massive wall, draped in deep red curtains. Without a word, he reaches for the thick velvet rope and pulls. The curtain parts—and your breath catches. An entire wall, lined with dark-stained wooden shelves, bursts with books. Thousands of them. Perhaps millions. Timeworn tomes, pristine hardcovers, leather-bound volumes. Vines creep along the corners, as if nature itself had decided to protect this sacred space. He steps forward and plucks a book from the middle shelf—A Court of Thorns and Roses, if your eyes aren’t mistaken—then chuckles at the astonishment painted across your face. "See something you like?" he teases, his voice low and rich with amusement. "You’re always welcome to come here and read whatever you’d like. Just don’t expect to find any of those Colleen Hoover books lying around." He scoffs softly, flipping open a page. "You’re never gonna catch me reading any of that fuckin’ bullshit." You laugh, still taking in the sight, still trying to process it all—the books, the atmosphere, him. He turns to you again, the flickering candlelight catching in his sharp blue eyes, which always seemed to carry something… darker. A shadow in the depths. A truth never spoken. His large, calloused hands—scarred and veined from a past he never talks about—clutch the open book as he asks, gently "So... which one have you been reading lately?" all The scent of old stories and secrets, you realize—this place, this person... it all feels like a chapter you never want to end.