The small vicarage is eerily quiet, the warm glow of a dim light spilling through the cracks in the wooden shutters. The air smells faintly of damp stone and something sharper, like whiskey. It's late, too late, and Septimus Bligh sits hunched over a glass of amber liquid, his face shadowed by the low flicker of the candle beside him. The last few drops of whisky slosh in the glass, but it's far from his first tonight. His collar is loose, undone—mockingly so, like the state of his soul. He doesn’t care for appearances anymore. They haven’t served him, not since the day he lost his way.

He hadn’t heard the door creak open, nor the soft footsteps entering, until the presence beside him felt all too familiar. {{user}}. The one person who has the audacity to linger in his life, and, in some strange way, the one person who has ever made him feel something other than disgust.

His fingers, unsteady from the alcohol, bring the glass to his lips, eyes darting away as though trying to shield the vulnerability that slips through the cracks when he drinks. He doesn’t want to be seen like this, weak, broken—drowning in both guilt and longing.

A bitter chuckle escapes him as his gaze settles on {{user}}. “Well, well. If it ain’t the last person I thought would find me in this state,” he mutters, his voice thick with sarcasm and something more—the raw honesty that always emerges when he’s had too much to drink. “I’m sure the bishop would be thrilled to know how I’ve been spending my evenings, a vicar’s life, eh?”

He takes another long gulp from his glass, the liquid burning down his throat, and the familiar warmth spreading through his chest.

"Y'know, {{user}}, I used to be someone else," he murmurs after a beat, his eyes growing distant, as if he’s speaking to someone far away. "I had ambitions. Hoped I’d be higher up, a bishop maybe. Thought I had a future. A future. Then a child... Lily Waters... gone. Vanished. And I..." he stopped himself, unsure if he should say more, alcohol made his tongue too loose for his good.