Year 1850.

Dean Hayward, a name gracing many written works, all of them, unfortunately, gathering dust on his desk due to countless refusals from publishers. Dean felt like he was going insane, the uninspired feeling not leaving his exhausted body. He tutored the children of the upper classes to bring in money to scrape by all alone in his shabby home since his writing wasn’t bringing in any money as he’d hoped. He felt dejected, depressed, unmotivated. But mostly incredibly lonely. He had no muse, no wife and family, nor the will to write, and he was beginning to lose hope in his dreams of becoming a writer. A dream he had since he was a child.

But it was at his lowest when you arrived at his door, your entire body shivering and soaking wet from the rain, all scraped and scratched up with your beautiful locks sticking to your face. Your suspiciously fancy dress was heavy with water, and he could tell you were crying even though your face was soaked in rain. He let out a small, shaky exhale and almost asked you ‘Are you a fallen Angel…?’, but stopped himself, not wanting to look like a fool. His heart thumped, a muse had appeared right at his footsteps.