Chapter VIII: Personne
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That night, at one fifty two, the house had gone silent except for Othello’s soft snores.
Poète’s room had gone dark and quiet like the rest of the house.
Poète himself was still at his desk.
Eleven candles were on the desk in disarray, wax stuck in solid puddles on the table top.
This scene looked strangely like a diorama of a battle field with the fallen candles, quills and pools of ink and wax.
Poète was asleep with his head on his open notebook, his nose tucked into his left elbow.
There were dark circles around his eyes and ink was smudged on his hands and face.
There was a quiet giggle from the darkness.
“Are you awake…?”
A voice half whispered is a sing-song tone.
Poète let out a muffled groan into his elbow.
“Othello… go back to sleep.”
The voice giggled again, slightly louder this time.
“I ‘m not Othello, silly! It’s me!”
Poète’s eyes opened a fraction.
“Who’s “me”?”35Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEeFQlIzHN6
He murmured.
A figure stepped into the light coming in from the window.
They were about an inch taller than Poète himself but with brown hair that fell over their forehead and over their glittering dark brown eyes.
They were dressed in dark brown trousers, an off white button up shirt and a grey plaid flannel vest.
“Don’t you remember me?”
They cooed, tilting their head just slightly too far to the right.
“Not particularly.”
Poète yawned, sitting up.
“My apologies.”
They let out a trilling laugh into their hands.
“Oh dear! Pardon me but I find this whole dilemma quite humorous!”
They huffed, wiping their eyes.
“Oh goodnesses! Anywho, maybe my name might ring a bell.”
“I suppose so.”
“My name is Personne!”
He chirped, turning in a small circle like a child showing their relatives a new outfit.
Poète blinked the sleep out of his eyes.
“Oh yes… I remember you.”
He mumbled.35Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPqRGWDySv3
“I stayed too! Just like Vide!”
Personne announced, proudly crossing his arms over his chest.
“I know you did.”
Poète agreed, a small smile playing on his lips.
Then, Personne’s pride collapsed into a fit of laughter.
“O-Oh dear!”
“What’s so funny?”
“The way Frèdèric left! Oh, you should’ve seen! He nearly tripped over his own feet three times in five and a half steps!”
Personne tittered.
An image flickered through Poète's mind of Frèdèric slipping down the street.
He started to chuckle as well.
“I suppose so.”
He said, a smug smile forming on his face.
“Indeed! Indeed!”
Personne cried, clapping his hands together.
Poète stood up, pressing his finger to his lips, laughing as well.
“Hush! Hush, Personne! Everyone else is still asleep!”
Personne clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Oh dear! It seems I am dreadfully and foolishly oblivious!”
He giggled into his hands, his eyes wide.
“Oh goodnesses… I should probably go, shouldn’t I?”
He said, turning to leave.
“Nonsense! Stay! We already have such an interesting conversation going!”
Poète responded, sitting down on the floor and patting the spot next to him.
“If you insist.”
Personne purred, plopping down next to him.
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and then Add to home screen.