Fulham Road Private Villa
Constantine Stewart woke up at three in the morning; going to bed early meant waking in the middle of the night.
The man got out of bed, wearing a loose cotton robe, and sat on the open terrace on the second floor, gazing at the early spring of the Imperial City. His long, fair hand reached for the wine on the table, poured a glass, and squinted to appreciate the rich aroma of the wine.
These past six months, his schedule has been somewhat irregular. It's either insomnia or waking up in the middle of the night. Perhaps he has stayed in one place for too long, and all the freshness has faded, breeding a sense of fatigue.
Should he return to France? Or go traveling? The man couldn't muster any interest, as if suddenly finding life utterly unappealing.
