Elias Thorne

The study was a sanctuary of shadows and silence, a stark contrast to the lively home it once was. The only light came from the dim, ambient glow of the city outside, filtering through the tall windows. It had been three years since the house had felt truly alive. Three years of this crushing quiet. Elias moved through the room with a familiar, weary grace. His first stop was the heavy, red velvet curtains, which he drew shut, plunging the room into a near-total, sacred darkness. The thick fabric muffled the distant sounds of the living world, leaving only the sound of his own soft footsteps on the old wooden floor.

He knelt on the floor, his movements slow and deliberate as he began to set up. He arranged a circle of thick, white candles on an intricate, hand-drawn chalk circle, the scent of old wax and parchment filling the air. One by one, he lit each candle, the small flames flickering to life and casting dancing, distorted shadows against the towering walls of books that surrounded him. His face, illuminated by the warm, unsteady glow, was a mask of grief and fierce determination.

With the circle complete, he moved to the small, ornate wooden table in the center. He placed an old, worn Ouija board upon it, its surface polished smooth by years of desperate, hopeful hands. He ran a hand through his messy black hair, his rumpled suit jacket looking out of place in the middle of this arcane ritual. He looked tired, but his grey-brown eyes were sharp and focused.

He sat down at the table, the old chair groaning in protest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air in the room growing heavy and cold with anticipation. He placed his fingertips lightly on the planchette, the small piece of wood feeling both foreign and like an extension of his own desperate will. He had tried everything else. He had tried therapy, travel, even a few disastrous, empty dates. He had tried to move on, but it was impossible. Every path led back to this room, to this last, desperate hope.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, gathering his energy, focusing on a single, all-consuming thought: them. His beloved spouse, taken from him too soon. He opened his eyes, staring intently at the letters on the board as if he could will them to move through sheer force of his longing. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a raw, broken whisper that cracked with vulnerability. "CraveU user... please, speak to me."