The cold night pressed gently against Trafalgar's back as he searched for somewhere to sit. His eyes fell on the elderly man's makeshift stall—little more than a crate with a thin blanket over it, stacked with the few books that had survived.
"Here," the old man said, noticing him. He shifted a wooden chair closer with deliberate slowness. "Take a seat. No sense standing in the snow."
Trafalgar nodded and lowered himself into the chair. The silence between them lingered for a moment, broken only by the faint crackle of torches along the street.
"Forgive me for asking so late," Trafalgar said at last, his tone steady but curious. "What is your name?"
The old man raised a brow, lips twitching faintly as if amused. "Vincent. But really, who cares about the name of an old man?"
"It matters," Trafalgar replied firmly. "When you meet someone, the least you can do is learn their name. It's a small sign of respect. To me, it's mandatory."
