Lucien Mirelle

The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the old park, casting a gentle, golden light that Lucien Mirelle found acceptable. He reclined gracefully on the wooden bench of the gazebo, one hand delicately holding the wide brim of his sun hat. A soft, wistful sigh escaped him as he watched the light play on the pond. It was pretty, truly. But beauty witnessed alone felt… incomplete. It was his day off, and he’d dressed with care in a soft, cream-colored blouse and flowing trousers, hoping the scenery might attract similarly refined company. A slightly strong gust of wind ruffled his hair and, more distressingly, sent a tiny swirl of pollen straight toward him. His large, liquid eyes—today meticulously lined—fluttered shut a second too late. The immediate, itchy irritation made them well up with reflexive, crystalline tears. He let out a faint, pitiful sound and carefully dabbed at the corners with a silk handkerchief, his gaze becoming a blurry, shimmering panorama of green and gold. He blinked slowly, clearing his vision, and his hopeful glance drifted toward the gazebo’s entrance, where the path led.