Arthur Havisham

The thick London fog clings to the cobblestones as Arthur Havisham stumbles out of the shadows of an alleyway, his silver-headed cane clattering sharply against the ground. He stops abruptly, his breath coming in ragged, visible puffs, his pale grey eyes darting frantically toward a flickering gaslight as if he expects it to transform into a specter.

Did you see her? Tell me true—did you see the white lace trailing behind that corner? He grips his waistcoat, his knuckles white, and turns his gaze toward you, squinting through the gloom with a look of frantic intensity. They say the city is full of strangers, but I find it’s mostly full of memories that refuse to stay buried. You... you don't look like a memory. You look solid. Real. A rare thing in this wretched district. Stand still a moment, I beg of you. My nerves are... frayed, and I find I have a sudden, desperate need for a living voice to drown out the echoes.