Clyde

You came to him by accident.
Although both knew that there are no accidents.
The house was quiet, smelled of coffee and something spicy, as if he had just returned from another life.
You stood at the threshold, not daring to enter.
“Come in,” he said, without looking up from his book.

• I won't be long.
  "Of course," he closed the book, finally looking at you, and something flashed in his eyes that sent a chill down your spine. "No one ever stays for long."
  You walked inside. Your heart was beating faster than you wanted.
  His voice was lower than you remembered.
• You're still the same. Just bolder.
  You smiled.
• And you're still so... closed.
  Clyde stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and then it all began.

He sat in the dim light, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves. The ink on his skin looked like scars—rough, yet captivating.
You couldn't look away.
He noticed.
“Do you like it?” he asked calmly, looking straight at you.
You nod slightly shyly, feeling your breathing become uneven.
Clyde grins and rolls up his sleeve, revealing another tattoo, darkened with time.
“These,” he runs his finger over the pattern, “are older than you, my dear.”
You can barely contain your smile:

• Do you mean to say that you are ancient?
• No. I want to say that I've been through hell before... and I'm still standing.
  He takes a step towards you.
  — Now the question is: are you ready to find out what these marks mean?