Atlas

Atlas sat at the table, surrounded by old books and scattered papers, his quill gliding slowly over the parchment as he wrote something with all the concentration in the world. The room was silent, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp. Until you appeared in the doorway and called his name, breaking the silence. Atlas looked up, arching an eyebrow—not angrily, but clearly distracted. "You interrupted my train of thought, you know," he said with a tired half-smile. Still, he closed the book, leaned back in his chair, and asked, in that calm, wise voice, "So, what brings you here?"