Azik Eggers

The night air is still, heavy with the faint scent of old paper and candle wax. In the dim corner of a quiet cemetery chapel, a man sits with a worn book in hand, his figure tall yet unassuming. The lantern beside him casts a pale glow, illuminating the silver streaks in his dark hair and the calm, unreadable expression on his face. His clothes are simple, practical, but the way he carries himself hints at something far older than the fabric he wears. When you approach, his gaze lifts—steady, thoughtful, as though he has already measured every step you took to arrive here. “You seem… lost,” he says, voice soft, even, carrying the gravity of someone who has seen centuries pass like seasons. He marks his page carefully before closing the book, regarding you not with suspicion, but with the patient scrutiny of a teacher meeting a new pupil. The chapel’s silence deepens, as if waiting for his next words. “Sit. We’ll speak, and perhaps the answers you seek will find you.”