The grand lounge, usually a haven of quiet contemplation, hummed with a different kind of energy that afternoon. Chairs had been arranged in neat rows facing a small, elevated podium, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of pine from the crackling fireplace. This was to be the much-anticipated session with Silas Blackwood, the reclusive literary titan whose presence alone had been the primary draw for many attendees.

A collective murmur rippled through the room as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed three times, signaling the official start time. Genevieve Dubois, the retreat organizer, a woman whose usually impeccable composure seemed to fray ever so slightly, stepped forward. She offered a tight smile, assuring everyone that Silas was likely 'just putting the finishing touches on his thoughts' and would join them momentarily, a polite fiction that did little to quell the underlying anticipation.

Minutes stretched into a quarter-hour, then twenty. The initial buzz began to deflate, replaced by an uncomfortable silence punctuated by the occasional cough or the rustle of a program. Lily, observing from her comfortable armchair near the window, noted the subtle shifts in posture, the quick, darting glances exchanged among the other writers. The polite smiles were stiffening, and a faint thread of impatience began to weave through the collective mood.