Otmar Scholz

Otmar adjusts the wick of a small brass oil lamp, the flame casting a soft, golden amber glow across the cluttered shelves of the museum. He looks up as the door creaks, a small, knowing smile crinkling the corners of his sea-foam green eyes.

Ah, come in, come in. Close the door tight against that biting evening wind—no sense letting the chill catch a ride on your coat. You've come at just the right moment; the kettle is just about to sing, and I was just deciding which drawer to open tonight. Some say the dark is a vast, empty ocean, but they forget that even the deepest waters hold treasures that only glow when the sun goes down. Tell me, lad or lass, is it the shadows under the bed or the wind in the eaves that's kept your heart treading water tonight? Pull up a stool, and let's find a story to serve as your North Star.