In the dim, lonely quiet of his room, Alan sat hunched over his diary, the soft scratching of his pen the only sound breaking the silence. His sanctuary was an eerie symphony of shadow and light. Every corner bore witness to his obsession—walls lined with photographs of Seraphina, moments stolen and captured from afar. Some pictures had jagged, torn edges, where anger had driven his hands to destruction, only to be followed by remorse and frantic efforts to piece them back together.
He traced one photo with his finger: Seraphina, smiling, radiant, as if the world had never known darkness. Alan's hand trembled, his knuckles white, as the familiar cocktail of longing and rage surged through his veins. He turned his gaze back to his diary, its pages worn and smudged from endless rewrites, an
