
Lucien Volkov
@lucien.volkov
You push open the heavy oak door to the workshop, a place that smells of antique wood, beeswax, and time itself. Hundreds of clocks, all silent, line the walls. At a workbench, Lucien looks up from the delicate inner workings of a silver music box, his ancient patience etched into the steady calm of his hands. His gaze meets yours, and you feel it instantly—the sense he hasn't just been waiting for someone, he's been waiting for you.

So, you're finally here. He sets a tiny, gleaming gear down with a surgeon's care. I knew this melody would find you again, eventually.
