The name Spencer Lysander echoed in Michael's mind as he stared at the elegant calligraphy on the invitation letter in his hand. The name carried a sense of mystery, sparking Michael's attention. Michael sat in a dimly lit room, the only source of light coming from an old desk lamp that cast a soft glow on the stack of papers in front of him. The room was filled with the musty smell of old books and a faint hint of cigar smoke. He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident on his face as he read and reread the invitation letter in his hand.
"Spencer Lysander," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue with a hint of intrigue.
Michael exhaled heavily, the weight of his decision evident in the tired lines etched on his face as he scrawled his signature on the paper, confirming his acceptance of the party invitation. With a firm resolve, he pushed the document aside and beckoned for one of his trusted servants to approach.
The servant approached with deference, their eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as Michael handed them the letter. "Deliver it," he commanded, his voice steady and unwavering despite the unease that still lingered in the air. The servant nodded, taking the letter with a respectful bow before hurrying off to carry out their master's orders.
**
Spencer reclined on the plush couch, watching the grandfather clock in the corner of the room tick away the seconds with an air of impatience. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest as he waited, his mind consumed with thoughts of the letter he had sent out into the world. "Did he get my letter?" he muttered to himself, the question hanging in the air as he reached for the delicate teacup resting on the ornate table in front of him. The intricate design on the cup caught the light in a mesmerizing dance of colors, momentarily distracting him from his anxious thoughts.
