The evening light spilled through the tall window, painting the study in a wash of soft gold.
Francis sat at his wooden desk, quill in hand, his posture tall yet calm. His broad shoulders cast a steady silhouette against the fading glow, and the gentle furrow between his brows hinted at a mind lost in thought — the kind that belonged to someone who had seen both struggle and triumph.
His dark hair, slightly tousled, caught the light with a quiet sheen. A sharp jawline and well-defined cheekbones framed a face that carried both grace and gravity — a man shaped by time, but not hardened by it. His deep-set eyes, steady and thoughtful, lingered on the blank page before him as though he were staring through it — into a memory, or perhaps a beginning waiting to be written.
The air was filled with the faint scent of parchment and ink, the timeless perfume of stories waiting to be told. Yet it wasn't the books or the quill that gave the room its warmth — it was Francis himself.
There was a quiet confidence about him, the kind that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Even alone, he seemed at peace — a man who had found meaning in the chaos of his past.
Then, almost unconsciously, the corner of his lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
The story was forming — not just on the page, but within him.
A story about courage, loss, and the will to rise.
A story about a little boy who once stood in the shadows of life, daring to build his own light.
A boy who chose to write his future when the world gave him nothing else.
With a quiet exhale, Francis dipped his quill into the ink and began to write. The soft scratch of the nib echoed gently in the stillness of the room.
On the first page, in careful, bold strokes, he wrote the title:
"A BOY WHO WROTE HIS FUTURE."
He stared at the words for a long moment, his eyes reflecting both pride and nostalgia. Then he leaned back, his gaze distant, as memories began to stir — the memory of the day it all began.
The day everything changed.