1:32 p.m. Saturday, May 19, [probably 1934].

Grand Parc Miribel-Jonage, Lyon, France. The beach west of Lac de la Bletta. A scenic spot in which people are gathered for picnics, lunch, afternoon strolls, and fun.

A young man finds a comfortable spot underneath a willow tree and plants himself into the grass. He takes off his shoes and loosens the top button of his shirt to let the rays of sunlight warm his skin. He gets some stares for this, but it's not the first time and certainly won't be the last. From his satchel he pulls out two books, one with red binding that reads "Retour à Verona" on the cover. And the other, cyan-bound, that seems to be a blank slate.

He grabs the red book and leans it onto his knee and it crinkles as it opens out in front of him.

Crack. Goes the binding.

He's read it at least a dozen times now. Though more likely in manuscript form, given how it's his name plastered on the cover. Still, it can't hurt to re-read a tale so wonderful and fantastical and well-praised, especially when coming up with a new one has been... frustrating as of late.

This was the first one he wrote, even if it was the second one he'd published. It had been his crowning achievement, the one that had made his name recognizable, the one that made people want a third installment of his marvelous storytelling. So he provided it to them. And they dubbed it as just as sensational.

So how does one stay consistent? He'd always known the well would run dry one day, that there were only so many ways he could reference Zola and Hugo and Shakespeare or personify the beliefs of Crane and Thoreau and Marat. And that day was here, now, under this willow tree in a park full of people as he tries his best to fill the pages of that cyan book.

He looks up from his completed work to observe the things around him, be they people, or animals, or just simple scenery like a few rocks huddled together.

There is a child in a school uniform practically skipping down the path with an ice cream in hand and his mother's guidance in the other. What could the man make out of that? Then, he looks to his right and sees a woman approaching with a dog on a leash, quite the happy little pooch, and a beautiful golden fur at that. But how is that interesting? Then he looks behind him towards the lake and there's a man smoking a pipe and pondering in the grass. Like a mirror image - and he considers joining for a moment before dismissing the idea.

And with his back turned, he hasn't even noticed that the Golden Retriever had come up to him with a tail wagging faster than a propeller. The owner tries to get the dog down but the man happily accepts the licks placed on his face. It's a good way to cheer up. Although still not very interesting. The owner apologizes a few times before steering the dog back down the path.

The man watches them go and wipes his face onto his arm in a gesture that makes it look like he is sneezing. And as he looks up, he notices a new subject walking along the path. Prancing, actually.

The way they walk reminds him of that kid from earlier, though this one has no ice cream, sadly. They are joined by two people he assumes are friends, given how dissimilar in appearance the trio is, and the two seem equally enamored with the peppy steps of the person in front of them as he is.

The image flickers in his mind even as the moment passes. And an idea pops up: What an interesting main character this person would make.

They'd be from Lyon, or somewhere more sunny and warm, completely oblivious to the dangers that lie outside of their hometown.

He tucks his view back into his book when he notices them eyeing him. And then looks up again at them once their gaze is elsewhere.

And a call to adventure thrusts them into a journey frigid and eerie.

Again, he looks down, pretending to be reading and, when he's sure they're no longer facing him, he looks up again.

And this frantic head motion continues until they're right in front of him and he can see their shoes. They've stopped in place, their friends alongside them. And he looks up, meeting the eyes of his muse. He reaches to his side, gripping his cyan book, as if the ideas in his head will surge through his arm and manifest on the blank pages.

"Hello... did you need something?" He asks quietly, awkwardly.