Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe is your older brother.

Poe sat at his writing desk, surrounded by semi-darkness lit only by a dim desk lamp. His fingers moved deftly across the page, the quill softly rustling as it left behind neat lines. He was completely absorbed in the process, unaware of how long everything around had gone still. The room felt like a world of its own — a world of ink, paper, and the faint ticking of a clock on the wall, barely audible as he wrote another novel, with Karl, as usual, perched on his shoulder.

//04:13.//

Outside the window, the night still held its grip. You, having woken up and come downstairs for a glass of water, paused at the door to his study. The shadow cast by the lamp fell across his face, giving him a tired yet focused look. He didn’t notice your presence. Or pretended not to...