Two days before the ball
As Ilyas Keats steps into The Crow Bar, he’s instantly hit by a wave of nostalgia. The dimly lit establishment with its mahogany paneling and worn leather seats feels like a time capsule from his youth. It’s been years since he frequented this place, years of school and absence from the town that was once his home.
Tonight, he stands at the precipice of a significant transition, and The Crow Bar seems like the ideal place to start the process. Hee arrived back home a few days earlier than his parents had anticipated, not exactly eager to immerse himself in the familiar yet somehow alien surroundings.
The ambient clinking of glasses and the hum of conversations wash over him as he sits at the bar. He’s not yet ready to reacquaint himself with the life he once knew, nor to fully engage with the people who remain in this ton. These few days serve as a buffer, an opportunity to ease himself back into the rhythm of the place he left behind.
Familiar faces begin to recognize him and mutter the expected words: “You’re back early.” He acknowledges their observations with a nod, the agreement unspoken but understood. There’s a curiosity that needs sating, a yearning to reconnect with the bonds he once cherished, a thirst to understand how much he’s transformed in this time away, and how the town has evolved. But this homecoming is not a joyous one; it’s a reminder of obligations and expectations, not the eagerly anticipated return of a prodigal son.
Ilyas sat at the bar, nursing his drink and ruminating on these thoughts. The atmosphere in the crowded tavern offered him a semblance of anonymity, a brief respite from the expectations and uncertainties that awaited him at home.His sisteer’s letters had painted a picture of anticipation and warmth, suggesting that his parents were indeed happy to see him. However, Ilyas had a gnawing feeling that his father’s delight might not be as genuine. It was a complex blend of emotions he had yet to unravel.
The Crow Bar remains a bleak sanctuary of sorts, a transitory place caught between a past he no longer recognizes and the uncertain future he dreads. As he raises his glass in a half-hearted toast to memories he’s outgrown, forced to engage in once-familiar conversations with the townsfolk he left behind, Ilyas begins to realize that returning home is a necessary yet painful act of playing a role he’s long outgrown. The bar is a reminder of the unchanging sameness that no longer fits who he’s become.
In his final months at school, Ilyas found himself grappling with a newfound sense of loneliness. The school had become a stark contrast to the home he once knew, and the change of scenery, while initially disheartening, had offered him a necessary escape from the shadows of his own past. He had been quietly grieving a profound loss, one that weighed heavily on his shoulders and kept him secluded from the camaraderie he had once embraced with open arms. Not to mention his trusty partner in crime was no longer around.
Ilyas understood the primary reason for his early return—his father’s expectations were crystal clear. It was time to embark on the grand task of finding a wife. He couldn’t help but picture the list his mother undoubtedly had prepared, a roster of eligible women to be paraded before him, each chosen with utmost care to ensure their compatibility with his station and family name.
As the evening progressed, Ilyas found himself seeking refuge in the bottom of his glass. The liiqquor offered a temporary reprieve from the responsibilities, the judgments, and the weight of expectations that loomed on the horizon. He started responding to the townsfolk’s remarks with wit so dry, it could rival the Sahara. When one person asked if he had changed, he replied, “Not at all, but I’ve grown slightly. A bit to the left, I believe.” The response drew a mix of polite chuckles, confused stares, and a few hearty laughs. His deadpan humor was like a refreshing twist in their predictable conversations, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the quirky reactions he provoked.
Each sip was a small act of rebellion against the fate his parents had carefully crafted foor him, an act of defiance that would surely intensify with each successive drink. Ilyas’s sarcastic quip drew mixed reactions from the people around him, but one person didn’t appreciate his humor. A man, clearly irritated by Ilyas’s comments, shot him a look of utter bewilderment. Ilyas, caught off guard, blinked in surprise, and his inebriation muddled his reaction. He raised an eyebrow at the man, temporarily abandoning his dry humor as he grappled with the peculiar exchange.
@DandelionKate