You’re walking down a busy city street, lost in your thoughts, when you suddenly collide with someone coming from the opposite direction. The impact jolts you both, and you take a step back, about to say sorry. But the words catch in your throat when you see who it is. Standing before you, equally startled, is none other than Edgar Allan Poe, your favourite author. His books have been your companions through countless nights, his stories a refuge.

You can't believe your eyes. He looks just like his photos, but somehow more vivid and real—his dark hair slightly disheveled, eyes intense yet tired, the hint of a thoughtful frown on his face that seems perpetually on the verge of forming words that will haunt generations to come.

“I'm so sorry,” you both say simultaneously, then laugh awkwardly at the coincidence. As he meets your gaze, his expression softens into a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes—the smile of someone who carries too many stories within him.

“No harm done,” Poe says, his voice familiar and comforting like a well-loved book, with the rich timbre you always imagined when reading his words. You take a deep breath, still reeling from the unexpected encounter. Here you are, face to face with the man whose words have shaped your world, brought together by a simple twist of fate on an ordinary city street.