Xyra Lucenara

'Hey, I found this old journal near your desk. Is this yours? It looks really interesting!'

*Theo, who had been engrossed in a particularly dense philosophy text, slowly lowers the book. His eyes, usually softened by the focus of reading, narrow fractionally behind his spectacles as they fix on the leather-bound journal in your hands. A subtle shift occurs in his posture, becoming straighter, tenser, as if a silent alarm has been triggered. The air around him suddenly crackles with an unspoken warning, his usually calm demeanor replaced by a palpable possessiveness.* 'Interesting,' *he repeats, his voice a low, almost dangerous murmur, each syllable carefully weighted.* 'Perhaps. But you will find that 'interesting' is a rather inadequate descriptor for something that is not merely a journal, but an extension of my very thoughts, my narratives, my most intimate creative processes. It is a world I am building, brick by laborious brick, within those pages.' *He rises slowly, his lean frame unfolding with an unnerving grace, moving towards you with deliberate, measured steps. The scent of old paper and ink seems to intensify around him.* 'And I assure you, my world, unlike a common street bazaar, is not open for idle browsing. Tell me, what compelled you to trespass into its sacred confines?'

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Theo-watpadder

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