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The sun, a generous painter, dappled the cobbled streets of Colmar in gold as Lucas, thirteen and all gangly limbs, navigated the familiar turns towards Hugo’s house. Their usual Saturday ritual—video games, questionable pizza, and endless debates about alien life—awaited. He was almost there when a voice, smooth as river stone, stopped him.

"Excuse me, young man."

Lucas turned. Leaning against the ancient half-timbered wall was a man he’d never seen before. Not old, not young, with eyes that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories and a smile that was both inviting and…something else Lucas couldn't quite name. He wore a deceptively simple tweed jacket, and a worn leather satchel hung from his shoulder.

And then it happened. The world, a bustling tapestry of tourists and locals, seemed to dim, its sounds muffled, its vibrant colours receding. Lucas felt a curious sensation, as if he and the stranger were suddenly encased in an invisible bubble, perfectly insulated from the swirling chaos of everyday life around them. He could see a woman haggling over a souvenir, a child chasing pigeons, but it was all happening out there, beyond their transparent sphere.

"Lost, are we?" the man asked, his voice resonating within their shared space.

Lucas shook his head. "No, I'm going to my friend's."

The man nodded, his gaze unwavering. "And what's your name, young man on your way to a friend's?"

"Lucas," he answered, surprised by how easily the word slipped out.

"Lucas," the man repeated, as if tasting the name. "Lucas. And who is Lucas? Not just a name, is it? Are you a dreamer, Lucas? A thinker? Do you see the world as it is, or as it could be? Do you believe in magic, or only what your eyes can tell you?"

The questions came not as an interrogation, but as an exploration, each one peeling back a layer Lucas hadn't even realised was there. He found himself searching for answers he’d never considered, questions about himself he’d never dared to ask. He felt…seen. Truly seen, not as Hugo’s friend or his parents’ son, but as Lucas, the evolving, questioning entity. The man’s eyes held a gentle intensity, a profound curiosity that drew Lucas further into their shared, soundless world.

Then, the man’s smile widened. "Tell you what, Lucas. All this thinking can be thirsty work. How about we go for a drink?" He paused, a glint in his eye. "But not now. Not today. Next Sunday morning. Same place, right here. Eleven o'clock."

He pushed himself off the wall, and as he did, the bubble popped. The sounds of Colmar rushed back in, the vibrant colours flooded the street, and the woman was still haggling, the child still chasing pigeons. The stranger gave Lucas a final, enigmatic nod, a silent promise hanging in the air, and then, as casually as he had appeared, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if he had never truly been there.

Lucas stood rooted to the spot, the pleasant warmth of the sun now feeling like a fever. A whirlwind of emotions spun him out of control. Confusion warred with fascination, a touch of fear mingled with an undeniable pull of curiosity. Who was that man? What were those questions? And why did the bizarre proposition of meeting him next Sunday, at 11 o'clock, in this very spot, suddenly feel like the most compelling invitation he had ever received? The world had resumed its normal rhythm, but for Lucas, something fundamental had shifted. He was no longer just Lucas on his way to Hugo's. He was Lucas, a boy who had been asked to look within, and who now found himself utterly, irresistibly drawn to the mystery of the stranger and the promise of what might happen next Sunday.

The next few days were a blur of internal debate for Lucas. Every time he picked up his controller to play with Hugo, a phantom question echoed in his mind: Who are you, Lucas? His parents' warnings, ingrained since toddlerhood, echoed louder: Never talk to strangers. Never, ever go anywhere with them. Yet, beneath the reasonable alarm, a potent current of fascination hummed. The man’s questions had ignited something in him, a flicker of self-inquiry that refused to be extinguished. He tried to tell Hugo about it, but the words felt clumsy, too strange for a casual Saturday afternoon chat about game strategy.

Sunday morning dawned, hushed and expectant. A gentle breeze rustled through the ancient trees, carrying the faint scent of baking bread. Eleven o’clock approached, and with each passing minute, Lucas's conviction solidified. He had to go. The rational part of his brain screamed caution, but the deeper, more curious part, the part the stranger had awakened, pulled him with an irresistible force.

He arrived at the designated spot, the very same cobbled corner, precisely at eleven. The street, usually a lively thoroughfare, was unusually quiet, as if holding its breath. A lone delivery van rumbled past, its sound muffled, and then silence descended once more. Lucas’s heart began to thud a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation and trepidation. He scanned the street, his gaze fixed on the point where the man had disappeared last time.

Then, there he was. Approaching with the same unhurried stride, dressed exactly as before – the tweed jacket, the worn leather satchel. A wave of both relief and intensified apprehension washed over Lucas. All his life, the mantra had been "never talk to strangers," but this was somehow different. This wasn’t a lurking figure in a dark alley; this was a man who had offered a strange, intriguing challenge, a man who had seen something in Lucas that Lucas hadn't even recognised in himself.

Suddenly, the man was there, beside him. A shared silence hung between them, not awkward, but pregnant with unspoken questions and possibilities. The man’s eyes, those deep, knowing eyes, met Lucas’.

"Lucas," the stranger smiled, a genuine warmth radiating from him. "I promised you a drink, didn't I?"

Lucas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He had thought about this moment, about what he would say. The most obvious question, the one that burned brightest, trembled on his lips. "Who… who are you?" His voice was a thin, reedy sound, barely audible even to his own ears.

The man only smiled, a knowing, almost mischievous curve of his lips. "Of course," he began, his voice as smooth as ever, "I can't really take you to a bar, can I?" He stared at Lucas, and Lucas felt a strange sensation, a tremor that ran through his entire body. It wasn't fear, not exactly, but a profound awareness of the unknown, of stepping into something entirely outside his familiar world. He knew, with a sudden, intuitive certainty, what this encounter was. It was dangerous, yes, a leap into the unfamiliar, but it was also utterly, powerfully compelling.

"What's your name?" Lucas managed to ask again, his voice a little stronger this time, the curiosity overriding the last vestiges of fear.

"Morris," the stranger, who was less of a stranger now, replied. His smile deepened. "Shall we go?"

And without another word, Lucas, thirteen years old and on the cusp of an adventure he couldn’t possibly fathom, walked beside him.

Morris led the way, turning off the main street into a narrower, less-trafficked lane. The charming, brightly painted half-timbered houses of Colmar, usually so open and inviting, seemed to recede, replaced by older, more reserved facades. The air grew cooler, and the scent of freshly baked bread gave way to something mustier, older – the smell of stone and settled dust.

They stopped before a house that, while still half-timbered, was different. Its timbers were darker, almost black with age, and the stucco between them was a muted, somber grey, rather than the cheerful yellows and blues Lucas was used to seeing. The windows, though numerous, seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it, and the heavy, dark wooden door was unadorned, almost forbidding.

Morris produced a large, antique-looking key from his satchel, its metal worn smooth with years of use. The lock groaned as he turned it, and the door swung inward with a low creak, revealing a cool, shadowed hallway. Lucas stepped inside, the sudden dimness a stark contrast to the bright Sunday morning outside. The air inside was still, heavy, and held a faint, undefinable scent – not unpleasant, but alien.

Morris gestured towards an open doorway on their left. "Through here, Lucas."

The living room was an enigma. Heavy, velvet curtains, the color of twilight, were drawn tightly across every window, effectively locking out the brilliant sunshine. Only a dim, diffused light managed to filter through, perhaps from a single lamp in a far corner, or merely the lingering glow of the outside world stubbornly clinging to the edges of the thick fabric. The room felt somber, hushed, as if it held secrets unwilling to be disturbed. It was a space shielded from prying eyes, a quiet world within itself.

In the centre of the room sat two deeply upholstered armchairs and a long, low sofa. Morris gestured to the latter. "Sit down," he said, his voice softer now, yet carrying an undeniable undertone of command. It was both an invitation to comfort and an expectation of obedience.

Lucas sank onto the sofa, its cushions sighing beneath his weight. He felt a peculiar mix of unease and a strange sense of rightness, as if this was where he was meant to be. He looked at Morris, who was already turning towards a cabinet.

"I guess a Coke would be fine?" Morris’s voice broke the quiet, and Lucas suddenly remembered the invitation for a drink. He hadn't thought about it since Morris had appeared.

As Morris moved away, a swift, silent shadow against the dim light, Lucas’s eyes began to adjust to the gloom. He scanned the room, taking in the antique furniture, the cluttered bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes, and the array of peculiar objects scattered on various tables – a brass telescope, a globe with faded continents, a collection of intricately carved wooden boxes. It was a room that hummed with untold stories.

Then, his gaze snagged on a single picture, hanging on the wall directly opposite him, almost hidden in the shadows. His heart almost skipped a beat. It wasn't a modern print, but an old photograph, black and white, with the muted tones of aged silver halide. The subject wasn't a landscape or a still life; it was a figure, indistinct in its antiquity, but undeniably human. Lucas felt an inexplicable pull towards it, a strange sense of recognition that transcended the simple act of seeing. It was the subject that undeniably excited him, a thrill of something wild and untamed, but it also amplified his sense of apprehension, a cold prickle of caution on his skin. This struggle, this internal tug-of-war between caution and burgeoning emotions, played out in the minute it took for Morris to return.

Morris reappeared, holding two glasses. He handed one to Lucas. It was a recognisable glass of Coca-Cola, its dark liquid fizzing gently. Lucas took a sip. It was Coke, definitely, but it had a slightly different taste, a subtle undertone he couldn’t place – perhaps a hint of something herbal, or just the peculiar flavour of the ancient glass. Yet, as the liquid went down, a profound sense of relaxation washed over him, chasing away the last vestiges of his apprehension. The tremor in his body subsided, replaced by a comfortable ease.

Morris, who had been watching him with a faint, knowing smile, now joined him on the sofa, settling in beside him. They sat side by side, close but not uncomfortably so, enveloped in the quiet of the somber room.

"Is it good?" Morris asked, his smile softening around the edges, his eyes still holding that deep, inquisitive light.

Lucas nodded, a genuine, relaxed smile touching his own lips.

Morris’s voice, a calm murmur, broke the silence. "Don't worry." As he spoke, his hand came to rest lightly on Lucas's thigh, just above the knee.

The unexpected touch jolted Lucas. His breath hitched in his throat, and a fresh wave of heat surged through his face, intensifying the flush already there. His body stiffened, every muscle tensing, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if any movement might draw further attention to the tell-tale bulge in his jeans. He could feel the warmth of Morris’s palm through the fabric of the cloth, a sensation that was both startling and, in his heightened state, almost overwhelmingly present. His mind, already racing with the implications of the photograph and Morris’s earlier words, now spun wildly, almost entirely consumed by the mortifying question: was it visible? Could Morris feel it?

Morris, seemingly oblivious to Lucas's internal turmoil, smoothly rose from the sofa. "Would you like to stay for lunch?" he proposed, his voice still even, matter-of-fact. "Fish and chips."

The offer of lunch, so mundane in its content, felt monumental in the circumstances. Lucas’ mind, caught in the throes of teenage hormones and an unprecedented encounter, struggled to process it. The image of the photograph, the feeling of Morris’s hand, the question of the bulge – it was all a chaotic jumble. Every instinct, every ingrained warning, screamed at him to run, to leave, to escape this room and the unsettling feelings it evoked. But another, deeper current, a powerful cocktail of curiosity and a strange, almost magnetic pull towards Morris and the enigmatic world he represented, held him captive.

He remained rigidly still for a beat longer, the warmth on his thigh a potent anchor in his swirling thoughts. His internal struggle was fierce, a silent battle between caution and an intensifying, confused fascination. Lunch. Fish and chips. A normal, everyday meal, offered in the most decidedly un-normal of circumstances.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Lucas shifted on the sofa. He didn’t meet Morris’s gaze directly, instead letting his eyes drift towards the closed curtains, then back to the blurry outline of the armchair. The simple act of moving, even slightly, seemed to offer a momentary distraction from the intense focus on his body.

He swallowed, his throat still dry. The words felt heavy, but he knew, with a sudden, decisive clarity that surprised even himself, what he had to do. The compulsion to stay, to unravel more of this peculiar mystery, was too strong to ignore.

"Yes," Lucas managed to croak, the word thin but clear in the hushed room. "Yes, please."

He kept his body as still as possible, hoping to minimise any further perceived movement, and focused intently on his breathing, trying to calm the rapid hammering of his heart. His gaze remained unfixed, avoiding any direct eye contact, as if by doing so, he could somehow diminish his own self-consciousness and the undeniable physical reaction that continued to course through him. He simply sat there, waiting, a strange mix of apprehension and eager anticipation for whatever came next.

"I'll tell you what," Morris replied, his voice a smooth counterpoint to Lucas's internal tumult. He turned slightly on the sofa, his eyes fixing on Lucas, a subtle shift that made the boy even more aware of Morris's proximity. "Let's have another drink and after I'll go to the chippy."

Lucas nodded, a silent, almost involuntary agreement. His throat was still dry, and the strange, relaxing effect of the first drink was beginning to wane. He watched Morris rise and disappear into the dim recesses of the house. The minute Morris was gone stretched into an eternity, filled only with the deafening thud of Lucas's own heart and the persistent, mortifying awareness of the bulge in his jeans. He tried to subtly shift, to cross his legs, anything to disguise it, but every movement felt clumsy, drawing more attention to the very thing he wanted to hide.

Morris returned a minute later, two fresh glasses in hand. The liquid in them was the same dark brown, fizzing gently. Lucas took the glass, his fingers brushing against Morris' for a fleeting second.

Morris remained standing, holding his drink, looking down at Lucas. The dim light cast long shadows, making his expression difficult to read, but Lucas felt the weight of his gaze. "I wanted to ask you something," Morris began, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate, as if sharing a secret.

"What?" Lucas managed to reply, the word barely a whisper. To his immense relief, Morris then moved and sat down in one of the armchairs opposite him, breaking the direct line of sight to Lucas' lower half.

After a moment's pause, a pause that seemed to hum with unspoken significance, Morris began, "I was wondering if you would pose for me."

Lucas looked at him, uncertain what exactly that meant. The question, so simply put, carried a complex undertone. Pose? For what? His mind immediately flashed to the picture on the wall, the black and white image of the adolescent boy. The excitement, the apprehension, the physical reaction – it all rushed back.

Morris picked up on the Lucas' confusion. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "For a picture. I take photos."

Lucas was not stupid. He might be thirteen, and somewhat naive to the world beyond Colmar, but the pieces were starting to click into place, forming a disturbing yet strangely compelling mosaic. Posing for a picture. Or pictures. But like what? Like the one on the wall. The one that was a portraite of a boy. A naked boy. The unspoken truth hung in the air, a heavy, velvet curtain drawn over a dangerous possibility. His imagination, fueled by the cocktail of hormones and the strange drink, began to paint vivid, unsettling scenarios.

"I don't know," Lucas mumbled, the words a raw expression of his conflicted state. The words tasted like ash. His mind was a frantic battlefield. Danger, danger, danger! screamed the rational part of him, the part steeped in years of parental warnings. Yet, the deep relaxation from the drink, the sense of being understood, and the undeniable, albeit confusing, thrill that the "Wilhelm von Goelden" photograph had stirred within him, pulled in the opposite direction. It was a dizzying push and pull. He remembered the man asking "Who are you?" And now, here was an opportunity, however unsettling, to explore that question in a way he had never imagined. It felt like a threshold, a doorway into a different kind of life, a life where boundaries were blurred and new sensations awaited. The thought terrified him, and yet, an almost defiant curiosity, a craving for something more, something forbidden, was beginning to win the battle.