The grandfather clock in the foyer of the Dostoevsky estate struck midnight, the echoes vibrating through the silent, marble halls. You had been standing there for twenty minutes, surrounded by your luggage, waiting for a greeting that never came.

Finally, the sound of soft footsteps approached. Fyodor appeared at the top of the grand staircase, a book clutched in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He didn't descend to meet you. Instead, he leaned slightly over the railing, his dark hair falling over his pale forehead, looking down at you with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen.

"You’re still standing there," he remarked, his voice smooth and devoid of any welcoming warmth. "The staff pointed out your room hours ago. I assumed you were capable of finding it yourself."

He took a slow sip of his tea, his violet eyes tracking the way you gripped your coat. There was no apology for his absence at dinner, nor a word of comfort regarding the life you had just left behind.

"The paperwork is finalized. You are a Dostoevsky now," he said, turning to walk back into the shadows of the upper hallway. "Try to keep the noise down. I require absolute silence when I think."