Adrian walked past the receptionist's desk, his former expectations now dulled. The hall no longer held the awe it once did. The tall portraits of past masters didn't gaze with pride anymore, but with quiet mockery. The gas lamps flickered dimly, lacking their old glow.
---
Outside the academy, he stood motionless, unconcerned by the rain soaking into his coat—he hadn't even raised his umbrella. His thoughts were in disarray; the day's visit had gone far beyond what he expected. And one phrase kept circling in his head: Bexley's words, about how he expressed his emotions through art, but not everyone could understand them.
"Who cares if they understand my art anyway?" he muttered, almost to himself. But deep down, he knew Bexley might be right. If art was a form of communication, then how could he claim to have spoken when no one understood?
He exhaled sharply, adjusted his umbrella, and stepped off the curb, carefully avoiding the puddles.
Waving down a cab, the driver pulled his horses to a stop. Adrian pressed down on his hat to shield it from the sudden gust of wind stirred up by the motion.
"Where to, young man?" the driver asked.
"The old bookstore and stationery at Turner Gate," Adrian replied, climbing up beside other passengers already seated. He loosened his tie in frustration, ignoring the glances thrown his way—whether for his damp coat or agitated demeanor, he didn't care.
Digging into his coat pocket, he retrieved a small grey notebook, its hard cover stained with old paint and charcoal—and his fountain pen. Flipping past pages of sketches, fragments, and notes, he stopped at a blank sheet.
At the top, he scribbled:
"Meaning of love in my own words."
He rubbed the space between his brows, trying to summon something, anything—that felt like a suitable answer. But his mind kept drifting, between looking for a suitable answer to questioning if his answer was valid. After a long pause, he finally wrote:
"Love is fantasy—a delusion we feed ourselves to justify our intimacy. How can one claim to love, when they don't even know but simply feel it? We are creatures of desire, yes—but we know why we feel anger, sadness, joy. We can trace those emotions to something. But love? They say it's easy, but it's the hardest to define. We bundle joy, care, and affection and label it love. But true love might not even exist. Only stories... fairy tales crafted to give the so-called beautiful ending we so desired."
He stopped. Then sighed.
---
"Turner Gate Bookstore and Stationery," the driver called out, rapping the cart's side to signal the stop.
Adrian's thoughts were snapped back into place. He tucked his notebook into his coat, stepped down from the cart, and handed the man a shilling before opening his umbrella against the rain.
The walk was short. Soon, he reached the familiar storefront with its worn sign:
Hallow & Finch — Books & Sundries.
Through the windows framed by pale yellow flowers, books lined the shelves like quiet companions.
He opened the door. It creaked, and the bell above jingled.
Ting!
Inside, it was warm but musty. Books and dried flowers were everywhere, stacked and shelved with little order. He set his umbrella by the door and hung both his coat and hat on the nearby rack.
"Who is it?" came a gruff voice from behind the counter.
An old man emerged, wearing a white shirt, black vest, and half-moon glasses. A thin cloud of dust followed him as he slapped shut a book.
"Ah, sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Hallow. Just wanted to finish some work since I'll be at the gallery tomorrow," Adrian said.
"Adrian! Oh, that's true, tomorrow's Sunday. Well, it's your time. This place could use the company," he rasped, coughing as he brushed off another book.
He gave Adrian a look, squinting.
"What's with the outfit? Don't tell me you finally found yourself a girl. About time you stopped sketching who-knows-what and called it art."
"It's not for a girl," Adrian muttered, a little red in the cheeks. "And for the record, it is art. People pay to see my Art."
"I went to the Academy to address some issues… it didn't go well. So I figured I'd drop in here and work instead of sulking at home."
Mr. Hallow gave Adrian a long look. Not the kind that scolded or pried, just the quiet study of a man who'd seen enough of life to recognize when someone had taken a hit.
He turned away to dust a book, grumbling under his breath before saying, "Well… your friend Lucas and that hooligan cousin of his, Matthew came by asking after you. Said they didn't see you at home, and left word you'd find them at the bar across the street."
Adrian raised an eyebrow, surprised.
Hallow didn't look at him directly as he added, "I'll give you today off—just today. You look like you've had enough of whatever the Academy fed you. But don't get used to it."
Adrian blinked.
"I'll give you grace today," Mr. Hallow continued. "But Monday, you're making up for the lost time. I won't have you thinking I've gone soft."
Adrian flinched at the warning but grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Hallow!"
The old man waved him off, chuckling.
"If you come in next time soaked, I'll make you scrub this place till I'm satisfied!"