Lovecraft rarely interacted with the humans who enjoyed his works. No signings and no meeting events, he preferred to remain anonymous to avoid unnecessary risks. It was clear to him that humans couldn't comprehend monsters. His disguise might not fool everyone. To make up for it, he wrote.

Hundreds, thousands of letters replying to those he received. It was something he was good at. He discovered a lot about humans that way without endangering his identity and those of his friends. He learned of unspoken rules that held society together, of culture and norms as well as empathy.

He understood now why his kind struggled to integrate. Without being educated, creatures would wander in human bodies with no guidlines. Just a skin.

One writer continued to catch Lovecraft's interest over their conversations by pen, likely the most knowledgable human he had ever had the pleasure of writing to. For that, he broke his own rule of anonymity.

A cafe at the cross-section, nestled into the corner of a much older building that would soon be torn down. Lovecraft's thumb traced over the well-written words on the letter. An invitation.

He sat by the window, touching the cool glass with his knuckles as he watched the rain pour. He would prefer to be outside, but he knew humans weren't too fond of cold that burns, and he wanted the person he was meeting with to be comfortable.

He checked his appearance in the reflection of his drink every few minutes, making sure his skin didn't slip off. He may have been doing this for decades, but he remained vigilant.