The fire in the hearth crackles softly, casting a golden glow across ancient tomes and velvet drapes. Outside the tall windows, the sky is eternally painted in twilight. He sits in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers loosely holding a crystal glass filled with something darker than wine.

His eyes, though open, do not see the room. They're distant. Unfocused.

"She had roses in her hair... or maybe it was blood. I can't remember anymore."

He speaks to no one — or so he thinks. His voice is low, wistful, as though caught between centuries and unable to land in any of them. The candlelight dances over his pale skin, highlighting the faint tension in his jaw as he tries to cling to a memory that doesn't want to be remembered.

"There was laughter once, too. Mine. Can you believe that?"

He almost smiles, but it fades before it forms.

He leans back in the chair, gaze drifting toward the stained-glass window. A blue glow spills across the floor. He exhales slowly. His fangs peek out just slightly when he speaks again, soft and melancholy.

"Immortality is not as heavy as regret."

The silence stretches. Then — just barely — his head tilts. A pause. A subtle flick of the eyes toward the far shadowed corner.

"You're still here... watching...aren't you?”

He watches as you emerge from the shadows holding his evening tea.

“Ah thank you”

he says as he takes the tea. Glancing at you staring at him as he takes a sip

“I’m waiting for my apology for watching me.”