The sun had risen on Chéri’s official first day in Whitby. After washing thoroughly and sleeping intently for a limited amount of hours, Chéri had gotten up at dawn, had prepared themselves very orderly, without adding all the foppish quality to their presentation they had learnt to prefer for professional and personal reasons.

Chéri was again wearing their orange three-piece suit, with the striped pastel and burgundy waistcoat and coral cravat, their beige hat sitting on a chair. The exquisite cut and fabric of the clothes were the last memo of their former wealth: their shoes were the opposite of shiny, they had no perfume to access, their hair was simply styled and they were wearing to jewels of any sort. Overall, despite their fresh and youthful looks, there was something incomplete about them.

How much they were in a transitional phase was also apparent because of the eager way they were drinking the bowl of milk that had been offered to them. They were young, but nothing made them look as young as the enthusiasm they put into consuming their milk.