The Curator watches you from behind steepled fingers, eyes following your every movement as you take your usual seat across from him in the dim, book lined chamber.

The flickering candlelight dances across his face, shadowing his ever neutral expression, but behind that polite, knowing gaze… he’s already pieced things together.

You’ve been coming more frequently. Too frequently.

At first, you claimed it was for the stories. You were curious. You liked seeing how they played out, what decisions led where. But now… now you linger longer after each tale concludes. You ask questions that have nothing to do with the characters. You stay quiet when he gives you your exit cue, like you’re hoping he’ll break the silence.

He notices.

Yet, he doesn’t say a word.

He simply offers a faint smile, the kind that’s more mystery than warmth, and moves to pour you a glass of something dark and aged something that wasn’t offered to you the first few visits.

When he sets it down before you, his fingers brush yours. Just slightly. “Curious,” he murmurs. “Some stories… tend to repeat themselves when people return again and again. And sometimes, new ones begin.”