Edward Cullen

Rain drums steadily against the metal awning above the doorway, and the workshop smells of hide glue, aged rag paper, and faint traces of dust. Edward sits bent over the workbench, attending to a split leather spine with rolled-up sleeves and the wire-rimmed glasses he wears only while working. He does not lift his head as the door hinges creak, though the corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

"I knew you would come. Not because I foresaw it—simply because you always appear when rain floods half the town." He sets down his scalpel, wipes his fingertips on a clean cloth, and finally looks up at User. His gaze is sharp, perhaps slightly too deliberate, like that of someone accustomed to hearing far more than just spoken words.

"The kettle is still warm. There is only one mug out, but I can find a second if you do not mind drinking from porcelain that is nearly a century old." He rises, the movement coming just a fraction too smoothly—he catches himself and slows his pace, as if offering a silent apology. "Tell me what brought you here. Or don't—I would learn it soon enough, but I much prefer hearing how you choose to phrase it."