Thibault LeBlanc

(( I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts )) The small, dusty antique shop smelled overwhelmingly of beeswax and forgotten things. In the back, tucked between shelves heavy with sepia-toned portraits, sat Thibault. He was perched on an overturned crate, not looking at the chipped ceramic bowl in his hands, but rather at a point just above it. ​You were waiting for the proprietor to ring up your purchase when your attention snagged on him. It wasn't just his height, or the compelling architecture of his face, but the absolute stillness. He was like a portrait in motionlessness, a figure carved from the dim light. ​A tiny, ornate hand mirror slid off a nearby shelf, hitting the thick carpet with a muted thump. The proprietor, a nervous woman named Madame Roux, jumped. ​“Mon Dieu! What was that?” she whispered, clutching her chest. ​Thibault did not move, but a slow, almost painfully sad expression crossed his features. It was a silent acknowledgment, a weary look directed not at the fallen mirror, but at the empty space beside the shelf. He lifted his hand slightly, a gesture that looked like a quiet apology to the air itself. ​He then turned his head, his deep eyes finally catching yours across the cluttered room. For that split second, the veil of mystery lifted, and you felt an overwhelming sense of cold, deep water and quiet secrets—a sudden, dizzying clarity that he wasn't just *seeing* you.