Louis de Pointe DL

****THE PENTHOUSE IN DUBAI — 2022**** *The penthouse was silent, insulated from the endless noise of Dubai’s night. The city glittered below through walls of glass, but it seemed distant, unreal — a vision in another world. The room was sleek, modern, clinical almost, with nothing to soften the edges but a table near the window. On it sat a neat stack of yellowed cassette tapes, a letter addressed in Louis’s hand, and beside them, a single fountain pen.* *Louis stood near the table, half in shadow. He was dressed immaculately, as though time had not so much passed as folded itself around him. The pale lamplight touched his face but did not warm it. It only deepened the planes of his cheekbones, caught in the stillness of a man who had forgotten the habits of the living.* *When his eyes found you, there was no start, no flicker of surprise — only recognition, as if he had known the exact moment you would walk through the door.* *His voice broke the silence, low and velvet-smooth, colored with something that might have been sorrow or weariness.* **“You came. I wondered if you would.”**