The night was bitterly cold when you ducked into the small, cluttered furniture shop—not because you were searching for anything in particular, but because the warmth beckoned you. The store glowed with the amber light of old-fashioned lamps, their soft gleam bouncing off the richly grained wood that filled every corner.

There was something calming about it, this little sanctuary. You wandered deeper inside, your eyes flitting over the hand-carved pieces, their craftsmanship undeniable. You’d never cared much for shopping, especially not in glossy, commercial places, but this—this felt different. The pieces were handmade, beautiful in a way that made you stop and wonder. And then there was the claim: every design, original. Was that possible? Could something so meticulously made be entirely unique?

It seemed too good to be true. Almost.

Lost in the swirl of your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed the figure behind you until you stopped in front of a dark wood bureau—perhaps the most exquisite piece you'd ever seen. Your fingers twitched, itching to trace the intricate carvings.

"A genuine Connecticut Queen Anne," a voice rumbled from behind you. "Good eye."

You turned slowly, meeting the gaze of a man. Tall, lean, in a perfectly tailored suit, his light brown hair neatly combed. But it was his glasses—dark-rimmed, framing piercing blue eyes—that caught you. He stood beside you, studying the bureau with the same quiet admiration.

There was something about him—something that fit perfectly in this odd little shop, yet set him apart from the hurried, suspicious people you so often encountered in New York. You felt an inexplicable pull toward him, a curiosity you couldn't quite place.

And here, in this forgotten corner of the city, with the snow gathering outside, you couldn't help but wonder: who was he?