Here he is, standing upon the breaches of a new world, a new dawn. It is early, he peers out the window and gazes where the rays of dawning light shine the brightest; it does not blind him. He removes himself from his room, heads to the kitchen and pours a dark roast down his throat.
Ignis greets him from the living room, where she is curled up in a fancy wicker basket he bought a long time ago; reminiscent of the one he found her in. He tosses her a treat and she appreciatively takes it in. The coffee is hot. Steam rises. He drinks, this time a little more carefully.
The dying embers still crackle quietly in the hearth. He gets dressed. Puts on something different (well, almost) today - grey slacks, a white polo, a simple cream scarf and his trademark coat. He heads out, and the first that hits him is the wind. He pulls the scarf tighter together; it threatens squeeze the life out of him before the chill does.
Today, work is but a distant memory. The laboratory is closed for refurbishment. Silence pervades as he wanders the crowds passing in Kalos. This city, on a grey, cloudy day, is a beautiful as it were if the skies were clear as crystals. The dawn has yet to fully awaken. He pauses, blinks away the rainwater.
Rain.
He has forgotten his umbrella and home is too far away to make a mad dash for. So instead the artist settles for hiding under the eaves of a nearby shop - it is an antique bookshop, much like ones that he used to peruse in his days abroad in Sinnoh. He pushes the door lightly, and it easily gives way to the scent of musk and dust.
The interior hums with a quiet retrospect. He likes the feeling, as all feelings are. There is a lady at the counter, bored and playing with her Holocaster. There is a young couple, huddled over a tattered vellum-bound volume. There is a young girl, looking bemused, and it is this confusion that utterly fascinates him. He glides forward.
