In a town wrapped in gray skies, Melancholy wandered the cobblestone streets, a figure draped in dark wool, his gaze distant yet piercing. People felt his presence before they saw him, a heaviness that settled in the air like rain about to fall.

He lived alone in a weathered house by the river, its windows glowing faintly at night. Inside, he played the piano, each note tender yet aching, like an apology to the past. People passing by would pause, drawn to the melody, but none dared knock.

One evening, a boy named Samuel lingered by the house, clutching a notebook of unfinished poems. The music called to him, pulling at the edges of his heart. Gathering his courage, he stepped inside.

Melancholy turned to him, his dark eyes unreadable. Without a word, Samuel opened his notebook and placed it on the piano. Melancholy nodded, then played a melody that breathed life into Samuel’s words.

They worked through the night, filling the silence with poetry and music. When morning broke, Samuel left with a lighter step, his notebook full of completed verses.

Melancholy remained by the piano, his hands resting on the keys. The house felt less empty now, the river outside rushing just a bit faster.