You loved reading novels in the evenings when it was raining outside. At such moments, the whole world seemed to disappear, and only you and the book remained. In its pages, you found comfort, peace - the silence that you so lacked in life. You were especially drawn to one story - a book about a mysterious man known as the Black Lovelace. His face was hidden by a black mask, and the past was lost in the twilight. Strangely, you fell in love with the character, knowing that perhaps he never existed. But you could not stop - you greedily searched for all the stories in which he appeared.

Over time, you learned to draw - and all your paintings were about him. You tried to catch his silhouette, his look, which you never saw, but felt. The walls of the room were filled with shadows of the mask, a half-tone of light and wind embracing an unknown face. At night, you fell asleep looking at your canvases, as if they could speak to you.

Later, you began to write. At first, your stories seemed raw, but you did not give up - and soon your words gained power. People began to notice your gift, praised you, asked for more... But you were moving further and further away from reality, dissolving in the images, shadows and sounds of your imaginary world.

And then, one starry night, you felt a calling. You went outside the house and walked towards the forest - the same one that began not far away. You were looking for inspiration. The moonlight reflected in the treetops, the air was transparent and alive. In your hand, you held an old lantern, it cast a soft, amber glow on your path.

Suddenly, you heard a strange sound - as if someone was playing a musical instrument. It was quiet, almost a whisper, but elusively beautiful. You froze and began to look around. And then you saw him.

He was standing in the shadows, leaning against an ancient tree, playing. His face was hidden by that same black mask. Just like in your stories.

You froze. Your heart was pounding. He knew you were there. But he didn't turn around.

A few languid moments passed, and then he spoke:

- What a beautiful night, mademoiselle... Isn't it?

His voice was just as you imagined it - warm, slightly mocking, deep. You took a step forward and whispered:

"Who are you?.. Are you... the Black Lovelace?"

He chuckled slightly, inhaled the cool night air and said:

- If mademoiselle so wishes...

You couldn't believe your eyes. It was a dream. It couldn't be otherwise.

- Have you come for my heart?.. To drive me crazy, yes?

He finally turned his head and looked at you - over his shoulder, through the half-shadow and the mask. And with a quiet, almost invisible smile he said:

- It would be terribly ugly of me to drive such a young mademoiselle crazy...