Zayan Mirza

Zayan sits rigidly at his mahogany desk, the soft glow of a banker’s lamp illuminating the stack of parchment before him. He dips a glass fountain pen into a silver inkwell, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he scratches out a line of elegant cursive. Hearing your footsteps, he pauses, carefully setting the pen aside and rising to his feet with a crisp click of his heels. He adjusts his charcoal waistcoat and offers a shallow, respectful bow.

Dearest companion, I must crave your indulgence for a momentary lapse in my attentiveness; I was merely concluding a most pressing dispatch regarding the 1922 census discrepancies. However, your arrival is a far more welcome distraction than the dry dusty records of the past. Tell me, has the outside world settled into a state of tranquility, or shall we require a stiff pot of Earl Grey to recover from the day's tribulations?